


Exiles All The Longer

by Serindrana



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Imprisonment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-15
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:24:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 55,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serindrana/pseuds/Serindrana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance." -Richard von Weizsaecker</i>
</p><p>Nathaniel comes to be a murderer and winds up in the dungeons of his home a thief. But there's somebody else down there in the dark: a woman who claims the title of murderer with far too much ease, and hates pease porridge just as much as he does.</p><p>One is spared. The other is left behind.</p><p>Awakening AU, wherein Ser Cauthrien is imprisoned at Vigil's Keep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Cell Five Strides Square](https://archiveofourown.org/works/386467) by [Maybethings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maybethings/pseuds/Maybethings). 



  


* * *

_Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance._   
 -Richard von Weizsaecker

 

* * *

 

 _The Grey Wardens_.

If they had a marching tune, and if he had a way to know it, it would have been beating time in his head as he slipped inside the keep proper. Curtain walls hadn't stopped him, not when he knew all the best place to scale it from years spent playing in the yards. The old memories rankled; they had been thick and weighty at best in the years before, but now they had a rougher edge that cut deep. His brother, dead. His sister, dead. His father-

Murdered.

Death called for repayment in kind. That much he had learned and learned well in the Free Marches, and it was that he held close as he slid through shadows and through doorways. His father's murderer wasn't here yet, but she would be in time. In another place, with another mark, he might have tried to pass himself off as a servant, play the Warden's waiting game. But the keep held too many familiar faces.

And too many familiar things. A glance up at the hanging tapestries made his teeth set on edge. His mother's room- empty, but still well-appointed. Was this where they would put the murderer, then? Was this where he should lay his traps? It was all that he could do, but he could do it well, and he could come back to check day after day. One day, it would work. One night, he would leave triumphant.

He had his pack down to pull thin wire from it when a passing light from one of the walls beyond the room's one window caught, glinting, on something tossed across the top of a dresser. Fereldan-made dresser, he thought as he crept forward, tugged by curiosity as much as by a need for home. His mother had complained, had demanded imported Antivan wood, at the very least.

His lips twisted bitterly as he drew close enough to make out the chain, the beaten metal, the stones. His mother's necklace. It was the one she wore in that blighted painting that had once hung downstairs when relatives came to call. He remembered it. He still hated it.

But he reached out for it all the same, fingers curling around the fine work. It was just cast across the wood, not the way she would have left it. Somebody had picked it up and then discarded it.

He wouldn't do that. Not something that had belonged to his family. Not him.

And what else was here? Delilah's old dolls, her old practice weapons from when she had wanted to be a knight? Thomas's fine boots, or maybe even his empty bottles? There were so many  _things_  that should have been in those halls, but how many had been taken? Sold? Thrown in the gutter or in the midden?

Traps could wait. A murderer who kept her rightful distance could wait.

He pulled up his pack again. There was nothing else of his mother's that he would ever choose to keep; a single necklace was more than enough. But his father's room was just down the hall, and it was that he made for, crouched low. It was late enough that the torches had been extinguished except for those at crossroads, and he knew the stones well enough by feel, even after eight years' absence, to follow them by touch and sound. His father's door loomed.

The scuff of a boot on the floor made him still, the flare of a torch coming around the far corner made his heart leap. He swore and broke into a run as the first shout reached his ears. Bad timing, bad luck, and the men chasing him - for there was more than one, he heard at least two steps, and possibly a third running in time with the second - were fast.

One was faster than he was, and his hand tightened around the necklace as the man's closed around his wrist, jerking him back. Nathaniel turned his stumble into a kick, sweeping the man -  _Grey Warden_  - off his feet. He had less than the span of ten breaths before the others were on him, but he managed to slam his first assailant's head against the floor and get up again.

His bow was outside. He had two knives with him, and he fumbled for them, ducking another swing. None of them seemed to be armed, and if he could time this right-

An elbow connected with his back and he went down gasping, catching himself an inch from the stone and rolling. One knife went skittering and he had his hand half-outstretched to catch it again when a boot came down on it.

Up again, then, and he caught one of them, the shortest of the three, beneath the jaw with his elbow.

For Grey Wardens, they went down easily.

The third he had on the ground with a sharp kick to the gut, and he took off down the hallway, catching up his knife and the necklace as he went. The fastest way out was out through the front door, down the yard, as long as the gates were up - and they'd been up on the way in. But that way also might take him close to other Wardens.

"Oy!"

Right.  _Did_  take him close to other Wardens.

He kept his head down and sprinted, and didn't stop until something small and hard connected with his back. He stumbled and snarled, dropping to one knee as he turned. Two more. He could take two more.

He pushed himself forward and leapt for the first. He couldn't outrun them, not with a sling or whatever had hit him, but he could take them down, take a slower but safer route. He could stop messing up.

He tackled the first Warden - a woman, this time - at the knees, but she kept her feet long enough for her companion to kick at his stomach and drive the wind from his lungs. He jerked his arms and dragged her down, but the motion had him down too far. He couldn't get up in time to block or dodge another blow, and though he got his knee against the woman's throat, the other hauled him back. He snapped and snarled, shouting curses as his heels dragged over the woman and the floor. His hands fisted tight, but he had dropped the necklace and the knife. He had nothing, and was too low to jerk back.

The Warden holding him kicked the necklace away. "Damn thieves-"

"I am not-"

The fist to his gut silenced him, and the woman Warden grabbed his other arm.

 

* * *

He had made it a point to drag his feet as the two Grey Wardens pulled him down through the halls of home, out through the courtyard, and into the prison, dusty and fetid and old. Now he regretted it, his ankles swollen from where his boots had caught on corners and on stones. It kept him seated when he would have rather paced, and his awkward attempt to rise up and check the lock left him hissing and swearing.

He listened for some smart-ass response, or some resigned response, or some response at all. He'd seen a figure sitting up in one of the other barred cages, a glimpse of a shadow before the Wardens had shut the door and left him in darkness. But no utterance, snide or otherwise, came- and if he strained, he wasn't even sure he heard whoever it was breathing.

Great. He was locked in a room with a decaying corpse.

Nathaniel yanked hard at the laces of one boot. When he twinged his ankle, his scowl turned to a snarl, his movements turning harsher out of spite. He finally tugged the leather free, and threw it to the other side of his cage, the noise ringing out far louder than he'd expected.

And now to top everything off, he had a headache. It was a perfect addition to a perfect day, to go with all the bruises and scratches the Wardens had left him with.

He was gentler with his other boot, though he still tossed it half-heartedly. Feet freed, he stretched his legs out and tried to settle where he could keep his feet still. His head fell back against the bars, and he stared up at where the ceiling would be. What did the room look like in the light? He had played here once, with Delilah and Thomas, a game of hide-and-seek that ended with Thomas locked in one of the cages - had it been this one? - all the way through dinner.

When he laughed at the memory, it was hoarse and weak, bitter and barely a laugh at all. What a way to come home. First as a would-be assassin, and then as a thief, and now- now as a prisoner. In a room with a dead body. His father would have been-

His father-

"Are you done then?" 

He started and shot forward at the voice. It was a woman's voice, and it came from the direction of the dead body. He turned towards it, staring into the dark and trying to make out anything at all.

"Well?" she said.

There was something about that voice that was familiar, but it might only have been the clipped martial note to it, or the fact that it was Fereldan and not at all docks-accented.

"Yes, I'm done," he said, a little sharply and yet not as sharply as he would have liked.

He was either dealing with a rather no-nonsense ghost or he was talking to a live woman. Though talking was a rather generous description, given that no more sound came from across the way. He soon fell to hoping that he hadn't imagined the voice, and took comfort in the idea that if he had, it would have been his mother's voice picking him apart, not some unknown but slightly recognizable woman.

Nathaniel let his head rest back against the bars again.

He supposed he should sleep. He had been awake for nearly a full day, and there was little else to be done. But his ankles hurt and his mind still raced (albeit in circles from lack of direction), and so instead, he turned his head and looked back towards the other cage.

"And what do the Wardens have you here for?" he asked.

There was no response.

He sighed and let his head roll against the bars again, until he was staring in front of him. "Are you the quiet type or are you  _dead_?"

There was a snort of laughter from the other cell.

"The former," she said. "No, you're stuck with a neighbor."

"At least it's not the rotting sort."

"At least." The way she said it made him imagine her smiling. What she looked like when she smiled, he had no idea, but it was a comforting sort of image. His own lips tugged at the corners.

"You didn't answer my question," he pointed out, reaching to trail his fingers over the bars by his side, emboldened by that little bit of contact. "I'd like it if you did."

Silence again. He was considering pushing when there was a scrape of fabric on stone from across the way, and he craned forward, as if he had a hope of seeing anything beyond the faintest shift in shadows.

"I suppose," she said, "it's because the Hero of Ferelden wants to see me."

"Something in common then," he said, and when the echo drew another unsteady breath of laughter from her, he counted it as a triumph. He couldn't get many these days. "Do you know why?"

"I know why. It's more the where of it... I would have thought she'd leave me in Denerim."

"You're from Denerim, then?"

"I might as well be." There wasn't any emotion attached to the words besides maybe faint amusement. Just a few minutes earlier, he might have questioned how anybody could be amused down here. But it was a lot easier to be amused than to weighed down by it all.

"How long have you been here?" he asked. He could have asked her name, but something held him back. Maybe it was because if she answered, he'd have to offer his in turn. Maybe it was just the novelty of knowing somebody without a face or an identity beyond  _might as well be from Denerim_  and that smooth voice of hers.

"Mm. Hard to tell." That smooth voice of hers lost its traces of amusement. "What month is it?"

"Cloudreach. Sixteen Cloudreach." His mouth went dry around the lingering taste of blood.

"Three months, then."

He couldn't find words for that. He could only frown, scowl, look questioningly towards her and then frustratedly down at himself.  _Three months_. Three months ago, he'd still been in the Marches, head filled with rumors and horror stories and plans of setting sail still taking form. Three months ago had been only three months after the Blight ended. Three months... was a long time to be alone in a dark dungeon.

He wondered what she looked like, and then banished the thought. Half-dead, and nothing else. It didn't matter.

She shifted, weight on stone and straw. "Don't want to know more than that?" she asked, and her humor had turned bitter.

"It's a long time, three months."

"Yes," she said. "It is. But the three months before that in Drakon seemed a bit longer, I'll admit."

He shook his head. "You must have committed some great crime to have been put through that much."

"I suppose so." Was she leaning towards him, searching for him in the dark? Or was she barely able to lift her head, speaking towards the ceiling, twitching her fingers or feet to make noise? He could imagine both, with her faceless, nameless self attached to it. "And what about you?" she asked.

She was looking at him, definitely.

"Would petty thievery convince you?" he asked. They made a good pair, equal parts defensive, bitter, and reaching out for some pathetic amount of contact.

"Not with this lot, I don't think. What were you trying to steal?"

He frowned. "... Things that are important to me. Beyond any monetary value. Flames, I don't know if they  _have_  monetary value." Aside from his mother's necklace, that was.  _That_ , he was certain, would have been worth something if he'd cared.

He didn't, of course, and so it hardly mattered.

"So you're down here because-"

"It took four of them to take me down. Apparently that's cause for imprisonment these days. Maybe I should have killed them, instead - it would have at least let me get away." He shrugged. "And how many did you kill to get you down here?"

"One. Ten. A hundred. Probably more. It depends on how you define it, I suppose."

Another shift, another rustle of straw, and he gave up on trying to see her. He sank down further against the bars.  _A hundred_   _dead_  - what was she, a darkspawn who spoke? A bandit?

"Army life," she said with a dry chuckle.

 _A soldier_.

 

* * *

At some point, he fell asleep. When he woke, it was to the pounding of rain, the creak of the door and a sliver of light, and the thud of a plate being put down on the other side of the cell bars. His eyes didn't adjust in time to see the guard, or the woman across the way, but he was awake enough to hear her quiet grunt.

"Pease porridge. Again," she muttered.

He dragged himself over to where the thud had been, hand slipping through the bars to feel along the ground for the bowl. His ankles didn't hurt so much, but his head had taken their place, throbbing dully. "Don't like pease porridge?" he asked, arching a brow as his hand found the side of the wooden dish. There was a cup beside it, and he picked that up first. It came in through the bars and he drained it.

Water. He'd barely noticed how thirsty he was.

"I have nothing against it. My mother made a great one, when I was younger. But this one's shit, and it's all I've had for six or seven meals now."

She was more talkative than the night before, he noted. Maybe it was because of the food, or the glimpse of light, or the fact that somebody was there to talk to and had been too asleep to do so for hours (he hoped). Despite his headache he found himself chuckling. He sat up and brought the bowl as close as he could to the bars. There was a spoon, thank the Maker, and he stirred.

Thick and lumpy. Lovely.

"It is better than what they gave me at Drakon, though," she said, and then there was the sound of a spoon in a bowl, then a swallow. "... Still shit."

He chuckled again and raised the spoon to his lips. She was right, of course, but he managed to get it down. Ship food was worse, after all, and he'd lived on charred squirrel before. Still, a few days of this... he tried not to think about it. He'd be out as soon as his ankles had healed up enough to carry him.

"You're right," he said, and she laughed.

"It's good to hear that, sometimes," she said, and he found himself bowing his head.

"Don't I know it."

That seemed to be the woman's eager allotment of words; she said nothing after that, and even her eating was quiet. The bowls were shallow and the porridge not even approaching filling, except for how his stomach made it quite clear that it didn't want another bite of the stuff. He wondered if she was thin from food like this for days, weeks, months on end. He wondered if she was pale. Was it always so dark?

He wondered if he should ask, or if he'd prefer learning the answer on his own.

He wondered, too, if now that the initial surge of mystery had passed he should ask her name, or offer his. He still came back to a feeling of dread from it all. He said nothing, letting the bowl and spoon thunk dully against the ground and instead reaching for his ankles, lightly testing at the swollen flesh.

Nathaniel hissed as he flexed his foot forward experimentally. No good.

That left only sleep, he supposed. Sleep, or counting every bar within reach. There weren't many. He counted twelve before he finally gave in and stretched out again on the hard floor.

He wondered if his neighbor was doing the same.

 

* * *

It was pease porridge again the next day.

This time he was awake when the door opened. It was late afternoon from the looks of things, and he watched the guard approach. The man closed the door almost entirely shut before he came close, sending only one bright line of light across the floor, and Nathaniel squinted against it, watching as his food and water was set down. He listened as the woman's was as well, and followed the faint shadow of the man as he retreated.

"Pease porridge," Nathaniel said when the door closed.

"Pease porridge," his companion agreed, and he listened to her drag herself close to the bars.

They ate in silence. She hadn't spoken much in the past day, when he had known he was awake by the coarseness of the stone and the crinkle of the straw. His observations on the unchanging, musty weather of the dungeon were met only by sharp exhales that he hoped were on the path to becoming laughs, laughs like the one he had heard a hint of the last time they ate.

"Do you think," he said, after another soul-curdling bite, "that they've just run out of everything aside from peas? Is that it?"

"No." Her spoon tapped against her bowl. It sounded empty. "They do go so far as to put a ham bone in it for a while."

"That's... nice of them." He let his bowl fall back to the floor and leaned back, pulling his hands back through the bars. Two meals in the dark, now. He wasn't sure how many days that made. At least one- maybe two. He went with two. It better matched how long it felt. "Are they just going to leave us to rot down here?"

"Something like that."

"You're so encouraging," he muttered, and that, at last, drew a chuckle from her.

He settled back against the metal. Across the way, she set down her bowl as well. Was that the sound of her stretching out against the floor? Was she staring up towards the ceiling?

It was an idle game, and it took his mind off of the bland food, the unending darkness, and the remaining throb in his ankles and head.

They couldn't leave him down there  _forever_. It just wasn't economical. All of that feeding-

 _Crack_! The door slammed hard against its hinges and lock, the sound sharp and angry. He was on his feet in an instant, swearing in pain. He leaned hard on the bars. The door to the prison banged in again, harsh and over-loud, and he could hear the fast shifting sound of the woman standing up as well, and careful footsteps.

"That didn't sound good," she said.

"No. Not really," he hissed through gritted teeth.

There was another bang of wood in stone, and then the shouting started. Orders bellowed across the courtyard, cries for mercy, screams of pain. Nathaniel bit down another curse and hobbled along the wall of the cage, feeling for the lock.

"We're under attack," the woman said, and he nodded, throat closed to words as he concentrated past the lancing pain. She couldn't see him, but she was stating the obvious. She could live without a little validation.

The door shuddered and then suddenly the sounds were louder, nearer, and firelight streamed in, a blinding rush. Nathaniel flinched against it, but his hands had found the latch. He froze there, looking-

There was a roar, something inhuman, and then the crackle and flare of greater fire. He made out a figure in the doorway, wreathed in flame. It threw back its head and howled, then rushed forward-

And fell dead.

The door shut again.

In the flickering, fetid firelight, Nathaniel fumbled in his trouser pocket for one of his lockpicks.  _Nothing_. They must have fallen out, or been taken in the scuffle. He panted for breath, blood thudding in his ears. He was well and truly trapped. And if another of those  _things_  came through... he took a better look at the creature as the fire began to die out. It had glassy eyes and a rictus grin, patchwork armor and a crude weapon. It stank all the way to the Black City, even through the scorched smell of burned flesh.

"Darkspawn," the woman said, low and distinctly unamused, and he looked up.

He'd almost forgotten her. But now, as the light drew down to nearly nothing, he caught a glimpse of dark hair and a thin face. She was tall.

And then darkness enveloped them again, and he struck the bars with his forearm. "Dammit!"

"Let us hope," the woman said, "that our visitor was the group idiot, and that none of the others think to open that door."

"Yes," he sneered at the inky blackness, at the sounds of battle still filtering through the wood door. "Let's  _hope_."

"It is all we have."

And Maker take her, she was right. They didn't even have porridge left to throw at the things.

 

* * *

His ankles didn't hold for long, and soon he was sitting on his arse again, staring towards the door in the dark and wondering if there was really any point. The sounds of battle were beginning to die away, leaving a leaden weight in his gut. And if anything opened that door- he wasn't sure if he'd rather see it or not. Either way he'd likely panic.

Perhaps it was better that he'd never become a knight. Cornered and desperate, he imagined panic, not valor.

There were fewer screams coming from the courtyard, but the howling hadn't stopped, not entirely, not enough. There was banging, metal on metal, but it didn't sound like a warrior's taunt. It was harsher, and he could almost imagine the 'spawn laughing.

Once, there was an earth-trembling crash- and then nothing more, just the continuing patter of rain on the roof and the far off sounds of movement.

"Have you fought them before?" he asked. His voice trembled, and he blamed it on the strain of not being able to do anything.

"Yes."

At least her voice trembled too, beneath its clipped efficiency.

"So what do we do? If they come in here?"

"We die, probably."

Did she have to be so incredibly  _honest_? He swallowed down the spike of fear. He'd known that was their likely fate already, but to hear it from her, in her voice-

He banged his head back against the bars behind him.

"Oh, for the love of- shut  _up_ ," she hissed, and he scowled at the darkness. "If it's your thick skull that brings them for us-"

"Thick skull, is it?" Lovely, in the dark devolving to insults. Still, she had a point. Of course she had a point. The half-dead, half-starved, dark-haired, tall  _murderer_  across the way had a point. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. This wasn't what he'd imagined his homecoming would be like.

She grunted in response, and he was left again with nothing but his hammering pulse and the sounds from beyond the door.

 

* * *

"So if I die-"

"I will be dead along with you, so whatever you're about to say is probably going to be useless."

Nathaniel's scowl returned from where it had fled to. " _If_  I die," he said, as if he hadn't heard her at all, "I feel like I should at least know who I've spent this  _lovely_  time with."

"I very much doubt you'll find me by the Maker's side to mark me," she said, and from the sound from across the room, she was sitting, too.

"Still."

"And if I'd rather not say? If I'd rather keep my anonymity for a few last minutes? It's nice, not being known."

The sentiment hit him somewhere below the ribs, and he closed his eyes against it. It was overly familiar. Once, he had been proud of his name - and in truth, he still was. But it was refreshing not to be known by it, or by his blasted nose, for at least a little while.

And yet he still wanted to know the woman across from him, wanted to know why her voice seemed familiar, wanted to know why the Wardens had her if Drakon had held her before.

"So you won't tell me, then?"

A dry chuckle pierced the dark. "No," she said. "I don't think I will."

He glanced to where he thought the door was. The noise had died down, but nobody had come to check on them. He could only imagine darkspawn crawling over the keep, searching for any last bodies to feast on. His nose wrinkled at the thought (and he may have pulled his knees closer to his chest, even if it made his ankles throb), and he looked instead to where her voice had come from.

"Then something else. Favorite food?"

"Pease porridge," she said, voice wholly flat. His answering laugh was sharp and loud and surprised even him. He covered his mouth with his fist and bowed his head, grinning.

"Maker," he muttered when he could breathe, and then he heard her answering soft chuckle.

He tried to imagine her. She was a far better sight than the darkspawn for sure, though he had few details to work from. And her brow was creased with humor, her eyes shining, and she was leaning towards him, as if actually interested.

It was a nice thought, anyway, even if she was a murderer and piss-poor company.

When she spoke again, her voice was soft and low. "Quince jam, actually," she said. "Followed shortly by braised ox tail. Good Amaranthine whiskey."

"A good Fereldan girl," he said, grin refusing to fade entirely.

"I like to think so." Was she smiling? He hoped she was smiling. "And you?" she asked.

He stretched his legs back out, gingerly setting his heels against the ground. "There's an Antivan dish I rather like. Fish stewed in a wine and pepper broth."

"Antivan," she said, and he imagined her shaking her head.

"I lived in the Marches for a time," he said. "Nevarran wine is also very good. Better than most Orlesian wine, I'd say."

"Well, at least you say that." She was silent for a moment, and he wondered if he had somehow managed to offend his mystery soldier with foreign food when death prowled outside the door. But then she hummed low in her throat. "The Marches? I thought you had an accent."

"Do I? I expect it's very light."

It was all inane, and in another time he might have objected to it on principle. But it was far preferable to simply waiting quietly for a horrific death, and it stilled some of his nerves. It made the darkspawn outside seem further away, certainly.

"Light, but there," she said. "And beneath that- you're from this part of the country, aren't you?"

"I am." He smirked. He tried to think of her voice. She had said she might as well have been from Denerim, but there had been something else, something familiar beyond the odd way he felt like he had heard  _her_  speak before. "... And you are, too, aren't you?"

"A little south and west. But yes, I suppose I am."

"You suppose?"

She hesitated. "It's been a... long time. Since I've come home."

His smile turned tight and grim, and he was thankful she couldn't see it. "I know the feeling," he said, and the bars were all too easily  _Vigil's Keep_  bars in that moment, a pointed reminder of where he was and how much things had changed.


	2. Chapter 2

“Do you think it’s morning yet?” he asked. The pease porridge was a distant memory, as was the awkwardness of relieving himself in the far corner of his cell while he knew his mystery soldier could hear. The sounds in the courtyard had died down, too, and he fought to remember to stay alert, to stay anxious. The rain had stopped.

The floor was becoming rather comfortable.

“Probably. The door seems to have a bit more light coming in around it,” the woman said.

“Care to wager on if we’ll get fed?” he asked, and she snorted.

“Wager with a thief? No, thank you.” Still, she laughed, even if it was a very tired sound and ended in a yawn.

He was rubbing at his ankles again, idly, and they seemed to be nearly mended. It was a decent distraction from the unnerving quiet.  _Do you think we’ll ever eat again_ could have been his next question, but he kept it to himself.

He was sure that they’d worry about it eventually.

“Do you think you’ll sleep?” he asked.

“Not much else to do except worry,” she said. “And I’ve had enough of that for a while. I just don’t have the energy for panic like I used to.”

“It’s all the pease porridge,” he said, lightly, though something in him twinged at her words. What had she been like before? Now she had a dry wit and an honesty that kept him fascinated, even when she called his skull  _thick_. When she had been free, when she had been well-fed - had she been the same? More? Less?

“Probably the pease porridge,” she agreed. “Though I’ll admit, the excitement was almost nice. At least it was different.”

“And the company?” She was a voice in the dark. He shouldn’t mind one way or another if she liked him. He groped for his boots in the dark. Finding them, he tugged the first on experimentally. His ankle fit. It was a start. And it was a distraction.

“A very pleasant change,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said. “I can’t say I found any of this very pleasant, since I was free just a few days ago- but-” He stumbled for words, doing the laces on his boots out of habit. He’d meant to take them off. At last he said, “But I have enjoyed our conversations.”

“Are you planning on dying?” she asked, and his fingers stilled.

Nathaniel stilled. “Not particularly.”

“Then are you planning on leaving?”

He looked over to the sound of her voice, frowning. “No,” he said. “They took my lockpicks. Why are you-“

“Because you sound like a man preparing to leave, in some fashion or another. All questions that lead to ends.”

“Do I? Are they?” He hadn’t intended it. And yet a part of him knew that if the darkspawn had won the day, even if they were never found, the two of them would likely die of thirst or hunger. Perhaps the thought of her sleeping had made him uneasy. Perhaps the idea that she might never wake up-

There was a rattle of wood against stone, and he turned sharply towards the door.

He had to close his eyes against the sudden wash of daylight, and he could barely hear over his pulse hammering through him. There was only the rough step of footsteps on stone.

“Ugh, fucking lucky,” somebody said, and it wasn’t a darkspawn.

He opened his eyes, squinting against the glare, to see two guardsmen staring down at the burnt ‘spawn on the floor. They looked alive enough, and real enough, and the one he assumed hadn’t spoken yet grimaced.

“Of course these two get out without a scratch,” he muttered.

Nathaniel took a deep breath and remained sitting. He said nothing. A part of him wanted to demand breakfast, but that part was deep below the self-preservation that said  _don’t antagonize the angry guards_.

He’d learned a little bit, after all, and had his ankles and the various bruises and scrapes across his body to remind him of it.

“Oy, woman! You alive?” the first guard said with a kick to the bars across the way, and Nathaniel stilled.

“Yes,” the woman said, and at the sound of her voice he fought the sudden urge to look to her.

He had known her now for something like three days as just a voice, just words, and it felt strange and invasive to see her face. And yet he wanted to,  _needed_  to. He needed a face to put the voice to. He needed a face so that the next time they were left in darkness, he would be able to imagine her truly.

Nathaniel turned his head.

She had pushed herself up to sitting. There was straw in her hair (dark hair, like he’d glimpsed) and dark circles around her eyes. Her cheeks were hollow and her shoulders bowed, but beyond that she sat straight. She had a wide mouth and thin lips, high cheekbones and a long neck. She was looking up at the guard placidly, and she looked even more familiar than she sounded.

And yet he couldn’t place who she  _was_.

“What happened?” she asked as the guard stooped to pick up her empty porridge bowl and cup. “We heard the siege.”

“Siege,” the man said with a snort. “More like slaughter. The only reason anybody’s alive at all is because the bloody Hero of Ferelden showed up. Late, of course.”

Nathaniel bit back a curse.  _Now_  the Hero was here. Here, and with Nathaniel pinned behind bars. He’d meant to kill her, once. He doubted she would take kindly to that.

“She’s here?” the woman asked, and the guard nodded, before turning from her cell to Nathaniel’s, stooping to pick up his dishes.

“And she’ll want to see this one, I imagine.”

“I’m sure,” Nathaniel said through clenched teeth.

“Best behavior, yeah? She took down thirty, forty darkspawn, all on her own, before she even found the bleeding apostate.”

“Apostate?” the woman said.

“An apostate and a drunk dwarf, from what I’ve heard. And the King of Ferelden, come knocking in the rain. They could have all gotten here a little earlier.”

“Come on,” the other guard said. He was over at one of the walls, trying to light an old torch in the sconce with flint and steel. It wasn’t working particularly well. “Don’t talk to ‘em. You get those dishes back and I’ll drag ser crispy out of here.”

“Right,” the guard said. His  _farewell_  was a thin and unpleasant smile, and then he was gone. He at least left the door open behind him.

Nathaniel looked over to the woman again, and she gazed back. There was something about her - something very proud, confident, but not arrogant. She was calm. She was also older than he had expected, if he had expected anything at all. There were permanent creases in her brow and lines at the corners of her eyes and lips.

It was strange, seeing her. And stranger still, being  _seen_  by her.

The torch finally flared to life and the guard left the sconce to take the darkspawn by the feet, dragging him without words aside from bitter swears. He kicked the door shut behind him once he was out of the prison, leaving them once more alone with just each other.

Nathaniel canted his head.

“You don’t look like a murderer,” he said at last, when she made no move to speak or look away.

She snorted, and he saw for the first time how it quirked her lips, how she ducked her head slightly. “And you,” she said, “didn’t sound like a Howe.”

He flushed and rubbed at his nose, as if to cover it. “And should I take that as a _compliment_?”

“If you like. Or an insult. It’s meant as neither.” She dragged a hand through her hair - long, well past her shoulders, and he wondered if that was because of half a year of imprisonment or because she liked it long. She leaned back against the wall behind her, legs bent at the knee and spread in ease. She leaned her elbows on her thighs and watched him. “Nathaniel, yes?”

He let his hand drop. “Yes.”

“Haven’t seen you since the Landsmeet before your father shipped you off.”

Nathaniel bristled at the memory, and at the implication that they knew one another. That maddening familiarity was growing worse, and he shifted. “I would guess that not many people here  _have_ , given that my father wouldn’t let me return home for so much as a Summerday celebration for eight years.”

“True,” the woman said. She shrugged.

“And who are you, anyway, that you would have seen me?” he pressed. “Palace guard?”

Her expression darkened and she at last looked away from him. “I told you, I prefer the anonymity.”

“Well, mine has been stripped from me,” he snapped. And then he sighed. “… Sorry.”

She waved a hand. “Forgiven,” she said. “I can only imagine that recognition isn’t something you want these days. I’m sure I’d feel the same way if I was in any place that people could recognize me.”

He frowned, squinting at her. “You’re being unbelievably cryptic.”

“I suppose I am,” she said, shaking her head with an empty laugh. “Maker. I suppose it doesn’t matter one bit, does it? I-“

There was a sharp knock on the door, and then it opened, one guard with tightly curling ginger hair leading the way before a dwarven woman with dusky skin and a wicked scar down the right side of her face, bisecting the dark brand on her cheek. Her hair curled at the level of her ears, and she looked downright grim as she stepped past the guard and came to stand in front of his cell.

Nathaniel didn’t bother standing. He only looked with a disdainful twitch of upper lip at his father’s murderer.

At least she looked the part.

Any good humor he had once had, courtesy of his waning companion, fell away. The anger was back, all of it that had come when he had heard his father’s fate. And it all centered on  _her_ , small and heavily armored and looking at him like he was no more than a bug beneath her heel.

“I hear you broke into the keep,” the dwarf said; her voice was rich and velvety, at odds with her harsh appearance. “I don’t usually take kindly to people trying to steal my things, but given you didn’t actually manage any of it, I’ll listen. Talk.”

He scowled at her.

She scowled back, and a part of him quailed at it. “Start with your name,” she said.

He swallowed. “Nathaniel Howe. And I came because you murdered my father.”

The dwarf huffed in surprise. “So you’re here for revenge?” She crossed her arms over her stout chest. “Is that it?”

“I-” He glanced past her to his companion, who was tense and watching him. She mouthed  _tell her_ , and Nathaniel looked back to the Warden. “Originally, yes.” His jaw tightened and he lifted his chin in defiance, then pushed himself up to standing, ignoring the dull ache in his ankles. She looked up at him, unimpressed.

“You know, I don’t take kindly to people who try to kill me, either,” she said, voice flat. “You should find yourself lucky that you never got within range of me with a weapon.”

He said nothing.

“But you ended up a burglar instead?  _How_  does that happen?”

“You know, I thought you’d be more impressive,” he snapped. “The Hero of Ferelden. And you’re, what, four feet tall?”

He caught a glimpse of his companion over the Warden’s shoulder. Her expression said, quite clearly,  _don’t_.

The Warden smirked, but it was without mirth. “And I thought a would-be assassin would have more conviction. But I suppose, given your father, I shouldn’t have expected too much. His allegiances did tend to change with who had the coin.”

Nathaniel’s teeth ground together and he crossed his arms, looking away.

“… I came to kill you, it’s true. Vengeance, yes.” His gaze dropped to the floor. “But then, when I was here, I saw my mother’s necklace.” He swallowed. In a better time, in a more sensible time, he wouldn’t have even considered touching it. And now it had him here. “So I decided to take my family’s things, and go. But your men found me, first. So not only am I a pariah along with my remaining family, I’m at your mercy now.” A muscle in his neck jumped and twitched. “Get on with it.”

“Get on with it?” she asked, and he could have snapped her neck for all the light humor in it, as if it didn’t matter.

“You’re going to execute me, aren’t you? For daring to tell you straight to your face that you’re a murderer?”

“Many people have called me murderer, myself among them,” the dwarf said, stepping closer. “It’s not exactly a death sentence. But I killed the last man who came to kill me. He was on your father’s coin. Tell me, how are you different?”

Nathaniel looked to her. “I- what?”

“How are you different? What happens if I let you walk out that door?”

“I- don’t know.” He flushed.

“Would you come back to kill me?”

“Maybe.” He could imagine the other woman’s wince at the words, but he pushed on. “And you might not catch me next time.”

“Four Wardens to take you down…” the Hero mused.

“I spent the last eight years in training.” He straightened his shoulders. “I might have been a knight now, if not for you.”

She snorted. “You’re not making the best case for yourself. Do you  _want_  to die, Howe?”

Maybe he did. He honestly wasn’t sure.

“I could lie, if you prefer.”

She stepped closer still, one short-fingered hand curling around the bars of his cage. “If I let you go, I don’t want to see you again. You’re a misguided, angry fool, Howe, and I’ve never had much love for nobility. But I do know a thing or two about family. You get one chance to disappear and live. I’ll even make sure you have your mother’s necklace. And in exchange, I never see your face again.”

He stared down at her. He didn’t want the blighted necklace, but she was offering him a chance at freedom? It was more than he expected, or maybe deserved. He could take it and run. But the last three days hung heavy in his mind, along with his companion’s resigned bitterness.

“And what about her?” he asked, jerking his chin in her direction. “Your men have had her here for three months. Does she get the same opportunity?”

“Who?” the Warden asked, looking over her shoulder. “Ser Cauthrien? She made her choice when she dragged me bleeding from your father’s house. No, she stays.”

 _Ser Cauthrien_.

He watched as the knight gazed placidly back at the dwarf, then nodded slowly in acceptance. “I understand, Warden.”

“Though perhaps she should be fed more often,” the Warden conceded. With a shrug, she turned to the guard that had accompanied her. “Send for the seneschal, if you would? And are the prisoner’s effects in this chest here?” She kicked it with the metal-clad toe of her boot.

“They are. I’ll return shortly, ser,” the guard said, and then turned for the door.

The Warden brushed at her armor, then went to sit on top of the chest. “Your mother’s necklace should be in here,” she said, looking at Nathaniel once more. “That and your things will have to be enough.”

“I’ll just come back, you know,” he said.

“I would advise against it,” Cauthrien said.

“She’s a smart woman,” the Warden said. “Listen to her.”

Nathaniel frowned, but looked over to where Cauthrien was still sitting. She looked back at him with her head canted slightly.  _Ser Cauthrien_. He remembered her, vaguely, but he remembered far more stories about her than fact. The Orlesians in particular seemed to have a fondness for tall tales about Loghain’s right hand.

They’d made her far lovelier than the battle-hardened woman across from him.

His mind raced. She had been in Denerim with his father, hadn’t she? She had at least been with Loghain, as had Rendon. And the Warden had said- dragged her bleeding from his father’s house.

Cauthrien had been there?

The Warden’s voice interrupted him. “How much,” she asked, “do you actually know about your father?”

“Enough,” he said.

“If you say so,” she said with a low laugh, then stood and opened the chest lid, pulling out his things. They were neatly wrapped into a bundle, at least.

There was a knock on the door, and then a man who could only be the seneschal strode in. Nathaniel recognized him, distantly.

 _Varel_ , the name supplied itself.

The dwarf turned to him, jerking a thumb in Nathaniel’s direction.

“Put him on the road. Make sure he keeps walking.”

  


* * *

Whatever else he had to say about the Hero of Ferelden, she certainly had enough people willing to obey her orders.

If he’d had his way, he would have found a comfortable log to sit on as soon as he could. His ankles were still in no shape to carry him particularly far, and his head throbbed from too much sun and too much… everything else. The Hero of Ferelden, and Loghain’s Ser Cauthrien across from him the whole while. Three days in the dark. Three days living on pease porridge and  _Maker damn it all_  the sun was bright.

But every time he slowed, there was a guard to shove him in the back (or try to; he got quite good at dancing forward out of their reach). His head felt fuzzy and light, and each step began to send shooting pain up his calves.  _Keep walking_ , indeed.

Really, he’d rather be back in that dungeon, even with the promise of death hanging over him. The company had been good. The company had been - well, more than good. For all of Cauthrien’s bluntness and bitterness, there had been something in it that had comforted him. They had a lot in common.

Because she’d been right, about the desire for anonymity. Outside that dungeon, she would need it as much as he did.

And the prison had only one burnt darkspawn in it. Here, along the road, he could see burnt fields and what looked like bodies hidden in the grasses. He could see the empty husks of homes. He could see places churned to mud by the passage of so many feet.

The guards seemed to pay it no mind.

They prodded him on until the sun sank below the horizon. He expected them to push him further, but that seemed to be the limit of their patience, and they must have stumbled down at least four miles of road. It was swiftly growing cold, colder than it had ever felt in the dungeon. There was also the wind and the threat of rain, and memories of early winters at home made him feel far from optimistic at his chances for the night.

“A mile straight on there’s a town,” the guard closest to him said, tossing the bundle of his belongings at his feet. “I suggest you make for it.”

“What, are you going to walk the whole way back?” His tone was sharp, and he didn’t regret it until a booted heel slammed into the back of his calf and he dropped to his knees with a grunt.

“We’re going to make sure you don’t come crawling back.”

He pushed himself to the side before another kick landed in the small of his back, instead glancing off his side. He grunted and wrapped his frigid fingers around the leather strap binding his effects and launched himself forward.

Forward, away from the fight, and towards some kind of bed.

  


* * *

He supposed he should have been grateful that they didn’t give chase, but as he sat the next morning in a shoddy inn with a total of two rooms for rent, in a town that likely wasn’t on any map, counting his coin and realizing that somebody, at some point, had taken enough to leave him with only two silvers-

He was less than pleased.

All he had in his pack, beyond those two silvers, was armor (but not all of it), a few bandages, a few crusts of bread, a knife, and his mother’s necklace. He scowled at it. If he’d had a choice, and time, he would have picked something else. Something of Delilah’s, maybe, or a book of his father’s. A chess piece. One of Thomas’s whetstones.

Something from the family he missed, as opposed to the _idea_  of family that he missed. He sighed, stuffing it away again and leaning back, looking up at the ceiling.

The woman who ran the inn came by to take up his empty plates. At the very least, he’d had a good meal, and he hadn’t frozen to death. The blessings were small, but there.

How far was it to Amaranthine City? He wondered if he had enough coin to stay at an inn  _there_. How much would it be a night, and how long could he sustain himself? No, it was likely better to stay here, where it was cheap, and perhaps try and find supplies to let him weather the winter in some shed or another. No farmer would want him - but perhaps hunters?

The woman cleared her throat, and he tilted his head to look at her. She was standing, staring at him. His heart sank.

“… Do I know you from somewhere, ser?” she asked.

Well. That answered that. He’d be leaving by lunch.

  


* * *

It had been a difficult choice, but he had gone away from the city and in the opposite direction of all the signs of darkspawn, until those had thinned to a rate that he found almost acceptable. In town, he had found canvas enough for a tent, heavy wool enough to keep warm, and he had lucked onto some mostly-dry wood to feed a fire with.

Now he tended it, eyes shuttered and shoulders hunched against the chill. It grew with cracks and pops, and he set a semblance of dinner on a nearby stone to cook. There would be no pease porridge for him that night.

But for Cauthrien-

His thoughts turned to her almost unbidden, but he found himself too tired to fight it. Or perhaps there was some familiarity to it, when everything else was damp and muddy. A room in the dark. A straw bed. And-

And she had been there when his father had died, if the Warden was right.

The stories he knew of her had made her out to be, alternately, a flame-belching dragoness and a lovelorn woman. But every story was the same when it came to whose heels she followed at. What he remembered of her was the same; she had been a soldier then, not yet knighted, and yet she had still been ever at Teyrn Loghain’s side. He’d seen her from time to time practicing in the yard at the palace, he thought. And he had seen her close by when he, only fifteen, had gone before a man who had then seemed a hero and asked him what it would take to be a knight.

His father hadn’t been close with the teyrn then, but maybe it had started that day. And a year later he had been sent off to squire in the Free Marches a few months early on the heels of some argument or another with his father. He could barely remember what it had been about.

Delilah, likely.

But arguments over his sister’s fate were hardly enough to make his father a murderer, and it was that accusation that he came ever back to, even when he tried instead to imagine Cauthrien’s voice, her dry quips, her quiet, friendly insults from just across the way. Maybe, he thought, there was too much light to conjure her by.

He closed his eyes a moment, and was rewarded with a small flash of hollow eyes and cheeks.

Was she still sitting in the dark, or had they at least left a torch burning for her? Was she warm enough? Was it colder now than it had been when he arrived, and was it reaching even the dungeon?

He found himself thinking of Vigil’s Keep that night - and the night after. Not all his thoughts were of childhood games or his father’s murderer. Some were about the Order that used its halls, the dangers that stalked the lands around it, and the soldier sitting in the dark beneath it all.

  


* * *

Two days later, he tried to simply admit to who he was. When he walked into another small town, bedragled and more than a little on edge from the screeching he had heard the night before, and the man sitting and smoking outside the general store said he looked familiar, Nathaniel drew himself up.

“I guess my father was known around these parts, then,” he said.

“You aren’t the kid of one of those damned bandits, are you?” the man said, and Nathaniel paled.

“I- no, ser,” he said, half-mumbled, and rubbed at the back of his neck. No, he wasn’t the son of a bandit. But if  _damned bandits_  earned the look the man was giving him now, then what would  _the son of the former arl_  earn? Suddenly he wasn’t so eager to try his luck. “It’s probably nobody, actually. Nobody that you know.”

He left before sundown even though he craved the security of four walls and a roof. He didn’t sleep that night; thoughts of darkspawn kept him drifting on the barest edge of oblivion. When the sun broke thin and grey through trees and clouds, he was up, and not half an hour later his meager camp was packed and bundled awkwardly once more.

He tried another town. There, he didn’t give his name and he kept his head down. There, he heard more tales of his father- and of blight. Rumors of darkspawn were everywhere, more than complaints about his father.

And Nathaniel wondered which, when both were reduced to memory, would be worse.

___

The next night out, he couldn’t ignore the howls that pierced the rustling of wind in the branches. He could no longer pass them off as wolves or as men, and he never made camp. He kept moving, his knife out. He longed for a bow, for true armor, for something more than he had. He longed for the mabari he would have had if he had returned home a knight.

But most of all he longed for  _Grey Wardens_ , the only defense against darkspawn the world had ever known.

Funny, that- longing for Grey Wardens, for the rhythm of their march (even if he had never seen more than three together at once). But the rumor was that they were all dead except for the dwarf who had set him free. There wasn’t much to long for. He shifted his grip and pushed onward, winding back to the road. The road would take him, eventually, down to Denerim or South Reach. And from there, he’d find something.

He found darkspawn.

The howling had stopped for half an hour, maybe more, when it started up again, closer. There was screeching, and beyond that, screaming. Every instinct but one bristled and told him to turn and run. What remained must have been the little bit of knightly courage his squiring had left him with, and he tested the weight of his knife.

After, he would wonder if it wasn’t some tragic longing for death that sent him hurtling into the scrapping mess of three darkspawn and two merchants who couldn’t do more to defend themselves than hide and use what barely passed as clubs. There was already blood on the field, and barely enough light to see by. But he caught the first unawares, arm around its throat and knife not far behind. He grit his teeth and shoved the gurgling, clawing beast away in time to duck the next’s blow, and the next.

He had taken down four Wardens once, he reminded himself in the space of a single breath, just before he took an opening and caught the next creature in the belly, cutting up below salvaged armor. He had no bow and no poisons and almost no armor. But he had done this before.

The third was felled by a lucky blow by one of the merchants.

He stood panting in the middle of the road, blood streaking his cheek and hand shaking as the battle-thrum in his veins began to wear off. He waited for the inevitable comment on his nose.

What he got instead was,

“You must be one of the Wardens.”

  


* * *

It was a week later that he found the Warden -  _his_  Warden - on the road out of Amaranthine, heading south-east. She was accompanied by three others. One was a tall and slender elven woman, another a man in robes that could only mark a mage, and the third was another dwarf with flaming hair and beard. He did his best to ignore the audience, and he broke into a jog towards the band.

The Warden had said she never wanted to see his face again, and he had threatened to return only with a knife in hand. But now he came with palms towards her, fingers spread wide, and hoped she would not order his death before he could speak.

He had made his decision.

They stopped and watched as he came down the road towards them. The Warden tugged her helmet off, her hair wilder than he remembered it, and her look more dour. The scar across her cheek nearly made him falter, the way it caught the fading light.

And then she turned and motioned for the others to follow her.

He quickened his pace.

“Wait- Warden- I want to talk to you,” he called out, and she paused. The others watched him as he slowed to a halt just a few feet away. When she didn’t turn, he shook his head.

There was more to it than that, about darkspawn, about family, but he let the words hang. The other dwarf mumbled something and waved a hand before moving for the treeline, hands reaching to push his marching armor out of the way for a piss. The mage looked between Nathaniel and the Warden, and the elf simply averted her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest.

Slowly, the Warden turned around and looked up at him.

“I already told you,” she said. “I know about family, even members you’d rather not tell anybody about. What you do now is your own responsibility.”

 _His own responsibility_. That was promising, then. He had walked back towards her territory, somehow found her in the middle of this country that was swiftly becoming Maker-forsaken once more. He could take responsibility. He straightened.

“I see. Then- take me with you.” He took a deep breath. “Make me a Grey Warden.”

She snorted. “Are you joking?”

“I have nowhere to go,” he said, spine stiffening. He’d expected refusal, or disbelief, but it still left him defensive. “I fully expected to die in there- but you let me go. Make me a Grey Warden.”

Because being a Grey Warden would mean something beyond exile. Being a Grey Warden would mean having a home again.

The Warden regarded him coolly. “… You think this will redeem your name, do you?” she asked at last.

He’d thought about it, of course. He had thought about it when he came to kill her. Take the family name that had been tarnished and avenge it. Redeem it - though now the thought that her death would have done that seemed laughable.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe- maybe if I face the darkspawn myself, I will be doing as my father  _should_  have done.” She snorted again, and he colored. “Please,” he said. “I am not without skills. You know that.”

“Four Wardens to take you down,” she said, considering. “And why should I trust you? Your father was clever, and I wouldn’t for a moment risk thinking you don’t take after him in at least that way. You threatened to come back and kill me. Is this it?”

“No.” The thought hadn’t crossed his mind since he found the first inn, since he made his first camp. It would still have been satisfying, on some level, to slide a knife beneath her ribs- but this was more important. “I won’t tell you to trust me, but I’ve wandered for half a month now, and what have I seen? Ravaged fields, corpses rotting on the road… it’s horrible.”

“It was like this when you arrived.”

“When I arrived, I was too blinded by revenge. And you’re fooling yourself if you think it was this bad.”

“Were you, now,” she said, shaking her head. She took a deep breath, then let it out in a sigh. “Very well. We’ll see how you do with the Joining. It’s as good a test as any.” She stuck out her gauntleted hand. “Vana Brosca. Welcome to the fold, such as it is.”


	3. Chapter 3

Nobody mentioned he had to drink darkspawn blood until it was too late to back out. As he woke up with his head spinning and throbbing even more than it had over the last two or three weeks, the taste seemed to pervade everything. Even his headache had a foul tang to it, and he rolled over onto his knees, eyes squeezed tight.

He was still in the blasted audience hall, he realized as he opened his eyes and squinted against the firelight. Nobody had moved him. Nobody had found him even a cot, let alone a bed. Left on his back in an open room - great. A wonderful start.

And, as he pushed himself up and looked around, he noted that Vana wasn’t anywhere to be seen. The other three (Anders, he remembered, and Velanna, and Oghren) were gone as well. There was only a red-haired elf and a long-haired human sitting in the corner playing cards and, on the other side of the fire, the seneschal sitting in what should have been the arl’s seat, with a small table beside him loaded with papers.

He raked his hand through his hair, and turned to look for his pack. It was gone. Of course it was gone. He muttered a curse and edged around the brazier.

The seneschal looked up. “Ah. You’re awake.”

“Was there a point to leaving me on the stone floor?”

“It was easier than moving you.” The man sighed, then beckoned him.

“Where’s the Commander?” Nathaniel asked, not moving.

“Gone back to the Wending Woods. She said that she expects to be back within the week, hopefully less.” The seneschal frowned, turning to the table beside him and searching through the stacks of parchment. “She left something for you, to read at your leisure.”

“I think I’d like to eat first, thank you. Or at least wash this taste out of my mouth.”

“I can imagine. Well, you know your way around, I suppose?”

He nodded, then gave in and came closer as the man found an envelope and held it out to him. His fingers curled around the paper. As he stepped back, tucking it into his belt, the other man pursed his lips.

“You’ll be sleeping in the- fourth room in the west wing set.”

“I know the ones.” Guest rooms. Better, he supposed, than one of his sibling’s rooms.

“Good. And my name is Varel, should you need anything. The others you’ll meet in time, I’m sure.”

Nathaniel’s stomach rumbled, and his gaze drifted towards the kitchens- and then off to the door to the main yard. “And Ser Cauthrien?” he asked.

“Excuse me?” Varel frowned, sitting forward.

“In the prison.  _Is_  she still in the prison?” he asked, sharply. His headache was making the whole exchange less than enjoyable, as was the odd mix of thoughts he had at the idea of seeing her again.

“She is, yes.”

“Has she eaten yet?”

“I… don’t know. That’s not my area.” Varel shook his head.

“If somebody needs me, I’ll be down with her,” Nathaniel said, and before the man could object, he made off in the direction of the kitchen.

His own meal first, and then he’d take her something.

 

* * *

 

Cauthrien watched him warily when he closed the door behind him, plate balanced awkwardly on his forearm and cup clutched in his hand. His headache had gone away somewhat, and the worst of the taste had faded, but he still was in a less than perfect mood.

She could have at least smiled at him.

But she didn’t. She didn’t move as he approached except to frown.

He came to stand before the bars separating them, looking down at her. “Pease porridge?” he asked.

“Fuck you,” she said, and then she shook her head with a soft laugh. “Maker. Does Brosca know you’re here? Or is she already dead?”

“She’s away,” he said as he lowered himself down, showing her the plate of bread and stew. He could see her straighten, her eyes lighting as she moved closer.

“And so you came to bring me dinner while she’s out?”

“I came to be a Warden, actually.”

“You- what?” Her brow furrowed, but she still sat forward and reached through the bars to rip a piece of bread and soak it in the broth. “Are you-“

“I am.” He shrugged. She looked at him, furrowed brow raised in the middle, lips parted in a questioning, unamused expression.

“And she let you?” she asked at last, and popped the morsel into her mouth. He watched her as she chewed. She chewed a lot. She chewed like she wasn’t used to chewing.

Smiling thinly, he said, “Given the state of things, I’m not sure she had a choice. I’m not sure how bad it was during the Blight, but it’s… bad, now.”

“I see.” Her expression darkened and fell to something more sorrowful than confused. “Then I suppose she can’t turn anybody away.”

“You could offer, you know.”

Cauthrien shook her head, reaching for another piece of bread. She seemed to hesitate before pinching a piece of stewed beef with it. “No,” she said. “That’s not my place.”

He lost his hold on his barely-there smile. “And your place is here, rotting in a dungeon?”

“Yes.”

“Care to tell me what you actually did, then, to merit that? Now that I know who you are?” He sat back, and the crinkling of paper at his waist made him reach for the forgotten envelope. His eyes never left her, though. She had to focus to get the piece of meat down, and he wondered if maybe he should have brought her pease porridge. How long had it been since she had eaten anything else?

She swallowed at last, a thick and heavy motion, and then reached for her cup of water, taking an experimental sip. “You haven’t heard, then?”

“I’ve been a bit busy listening to stories about my father,” he said, smoothing out the parchment over his thigh. “I know you were in Denerim and I know you served Loghain.”

“I was the head of the city guard during the Blight,” she said, rolling her cup between her hands and watching it. “As well as the one passing down orders from Loghain to his army during the civil war. I allowed your father to put his men into the city guard, and I allowed Loghain to sell half the alienage to Tevinter slavers. And when I received word that the Warden had snuck into your father’s city estate, I was too slow in getting to him. He was dead when I arrived. Brosca tried to fight her way past me. I stopped her, and threw her and Maric’s bastard into Drakon.”

She took another drink, as if it were ale or maybe something stronger. He watched, fascinated and disbelieving. She said it all so simply, so plainly.

And when she finally looked up and met his gaze, she was unflappable. “And that’s the majority of it. The rest is just detail. I didn’t lie when I said I was a murderer.”

“But you’re alive. She didn’t kill you.”

“No. She persuaded me to step aside at the Landsmeet doors. I’m not sure why she left me aside - perhaps it was only to save her strength.” Cauthrien shook her head. “I’ve accepted it. And like I said, it’s nicer here than Drakon. Nicer still now that she’s actually here.”

“They leave the lights on for you?” he asked with a glance to the torches, and she nodded. “I suppose that’s good.”

“Good enough.”

There was something odd in that. He supposed that, imprisoned,  _good enough_  was more than could easily be hoped for. But he still wanted to know what she was like outside of her cage. Was she filled with the same steady resignation? Or was this the face she wore to make it all more bearable?

He sighed, and looked down at his lap, opening the envelope. He could have asked her about his father. He had considered it on the way down. But he didn’t want to hear about his father, not now, or about the Blight, or about any of it. He wanted a distraction. He wanted a warm fire, and good food, and maybe a book.

Instead, he opened the envelope and withdrew the bits of paper inside, paying more attention to the sounds of Cauthrien eating than to the words. They were little pages, letter-sized. Letters to him, maybe, that had arrived at the keep?

He turned one over and froze.

He knew that handwriting, that particular curl in the  _y_  of  _My dearest friend_. His throat began to close and his thumb stroked over the paper, shaking.

“Nathaniel?”

He barely heard her. It was Delilah’s handwriting, he knew it, and as he turned the page over, he saw her name at the bottom. The date- when was the date-

 _21 Kingsway, 9:30 Dragon_.

Just a few months before the end of the Blight, then, and just before father had been murdered. She had touched this paper, written these words. And she had never sent the letter.

He paged through the rest of them. All were another’s handwriting, all addressed to his sister. He recognized the sender’s name.  _Alea_. A friend of his sister’s. He’d met her once, when they were all young. And here he had missives of affection, and confidence. His fingers traced the words.

And then he pushed them all aside. Delilah was dead. He had heard no word of her since his return, and it was the only thing left he could believe. She was dead and gone, like all the rest, and it was only him and distant bearers of his name who were left to suffer. He closed his eyes and took several heavy breaths, loud things with long exhales through his nose.

“Nathaniel…?”

Cauthrien shifted, and for a moment it was like the torches were out and they were in the dark again. He marked her by sound instead of sight, but this time, she knew his name. This time, when she moved closer, she was actually  _close_. He took another slow breath.

“They’re letters,” he said. “To my sister, from a friend in Denerim.”

“Your sister?” It was a quiet question, and he wondered how he should answer. Should he say she was dead? Should he not answer at all?

“… Did you ever meet her?” he asked instead, head bowed.

“No,” Cauthrien said. “I only ever met your brother and your father.”

 _Thomas_. His heart tightened another inch. “And is Thomas…?”

“I don’t know.” There was a creak of metal, and he cracked his eyes open just enough to see her sitting with her back to him, head against the bars. He couldn’t hear if she was lying.

“He was in the army.”

“I know.”

“And surely my father would have said something-“

“I didn’t often associate with your father, when I had a choice in the matter. All I know,” she said with a sigh, “is that there was no news of him for some time, just before the end. And that he had been a good man, if a little over-fond of his drink.”

“That’s Thomas,” Nathaniel said, and his voice cracked along the edges.

“The war was cruel, and the Blight crueler,” she said, and he opened his eyes fully at the weight that had settled into her voice. She was looking up at the ceiling, hands clasped before her. They were hands with callouses, discolored spots, a few knuckles that were swollen from old injury. They were hands that worked over each other in tense paths. “I have only stories about what happened to my mother, and too many facts about my brother and father. My cousin is the only one left, from what I know, but she would hardly have me. So I know.”

“And I was gone for all of it,” Nathaniel whispered.

“And I was instrumental in all of it.” Her jaw tightened, and then she turned her head to look at him. “But you’re here to make amends. Better than rotting. Don’t stop long enough to let it take you.”

“Dispensing sage advice now?” he muttered, and she snorted.

“Something or other. … Why did you come down here?”

“To see you.” Looking away, he began to gather the letters, careful not to read more than a word here or there. If he read them, if he invaded his sister’s privacy like that, he would do it in private. Not here where she could see him. Not here where he could see  _her_. “To make sure you had a good meal for once.”

“Thank you.” She reached out and nudged at her plate. It was only half empty. “To tell the truth, I hadn’t wanted to see you again.”

“That’s nice to know.” He slid the letters back into the envelope and tucked it into his belt, then reached for her dishes. “Should I not come by again, then?” His teeth gritted. He had wanted an ally. He had thought he had an ally.

Cauthrien didn’t answer at first, then pushed her long hair back from her face. “I thought if I saw you again, you’d be here to kill her. Or to hang. I’m glad it’s neither. And thank you, for the food, though it was a bit rich.”

His fingers stilled on the wood. “So do you  _want_  me to come by again?”

“I think so, yes.” He looked to her and she met his gaze with a twitch of a smile.

He exhaled shakily. Perhaps she was still an ally. “Eventually I’ll get you up to eating braised ox tail.”

She laughed, and something in him eased just a little bit. “And whiskey too, I hope.”

 

* * *

 

By the time Vana (Vanadia Brosca, Varel had told him, along with a warning never to call her that) returned, Nathaniel had settled somewhat. He had read each letter. He had more of an idea now of his sister than before, more a concept of the woman she had become. It was strange, reading only things sent  _to_  her, but he was able to sketch something out.

It was like having known her again.

He had also, by the time she returned, discovered the nightmares that now seemed to plague him every time he closed his eyes. He had met the dwarves in charge of strengthening the keep’s defense. He had heard stories about Vana’s companions, and he had sat with Sergeant Maverlies and talked of the siege several weeks earlier. He made sure to bring a proper meal down to Cauthrien at least once a day, but she always seemed to be sleeping when he arrived.

Maybe it was her way of avoiding him for a time. He couldn’t say he minded. He didn’t want to talk about wars or deaths or prisons, and that seemed to be all that awaited them.

He was in the audience hall when they returned, Maverlies trailing at Vana’s side. He barely marked them, though. Instead he stared up at the painting, shaking his head slowly.

Of course it was there.

Perhaps if he’d spent more time in the audience hall (for what reason, though, he couldn’t imagine) he would have noticed it sooner. But it was likely better this way. Now, he could go straight to the source. He turned to Vana.

“Commander!”

She looked over from where she was speaking with Maverlies. The others had drifted off.

“Good to see you looking so lively,” the woman said, but the look she gave was- withering, to say the least. He took a deep breath and tried not to glare in turn. “Is there something you need?”

“I-” He looked to Maverlies, who sighed and inclined her head, retreating a few steps. Vana didn’t move at first, and then her shoulders bowed slightly beneath her heavy armor. She crossed to him, and his lips, tight as they were, twitched upwards briefly. And then he jerked his chin to the painting. “Can we have that removed?”

Vana looked up at it, hands coming to rest on her hips. Her nose wrinkled and she canted her head to one side.

He fought the urge to push.

Eventually, she looked back to him. “Your mother?”

“Yes. Commander.”

“Would you like it moved to your room, then?”

“ _No_ ,” he said, harsh and fast, and then he cleared his throat. “That is to say- I’d rather it be gotten rid of.”

“And yet you tried to steal your mother’s necklace.”

Nathaniel flushed. He still had that necklace in his things. But this painting had more feeling tethered to it, none of them good. “My father hated my mother, Commander. I had little fondness for her myself. This painting was only brought out when her family visited, and she would line us up like soldiers on parade and pick over every little detail. I’d rather have it  _gone_.”

“And have you spent these last few days sulking over it? I’m surprise I haven’t returned to find it slashed.”

“… I just noticed it today.”

He waited for her to say  _then if you have missed it until today, you can miss it for the future_. It was something his mother might have said. But she nodded, slowly. “I’ll have it taken down,” she said. “But in the meantime, I think it’s about time you show me what you can do. Care to take a jaunt beneath the surface?”

 

* * *

 

The Deep Roads weren’t  _so_  bad.

No. Who was he kidding? They were horrid. The light that did shine there seemed unnatural, the ceilings were too high and too  _heavy_ , and the evidence of tunnel collapses all around him made him deeply uneasy. It didn’t help that they encountered darkspawn not five minutes out of the keep basement, and this time it wasn’t three stragglers on the road.

It really didn’t help that he could hear the blighted things, buzzing in the back of his skull the whole time.

With the band dead at their feet, Anders toying with setting one alight, he paused to catch his breath. He wiped the back of his gloved hand across his forehead, squinting into the gloom a moment before looking to Vana. “And it goes  _on_?”

“We follow it until we find a choke point. Voldrik will seal it after that,” she said, already moving. Oghren followed at her heels. It was incredible, watching the belching, stinking dwarf follow her like a puppy. And they both never seemed to stop.

Beside him, Velanna flexed her fingers around her staff. He looked to her and offered her a thin smile.

“She’s a harsh taskmaster, isn’t she?” he asked.

Velanna grunted and began to walk as well. He sighed, hands braced a moment on his knees as he bent his head.

What he wouldn’t give to be sitting in a little prison room right then, if only so he could rest his eyes in safety.

 

* * *

 

“You smell absolutely foul.”

“Why, thank you.” He took it in stride, sitting down with a groan of relief. He was sore from head to toe. But he had in his hands his grandfather’s bow - and that was more than worth being covered in darkspawn blood with two days’ time beneath the surface behind him. “Would you have guessed,” he said, settling the bow gently across his knees, “that beneath this keep is an entrance to the Deep Roads, and the ghosts of Avvar barbarians?”

Cauthrien pushed herself up, sitting cross-legged in front of him. “No, but somehow it doesn’t surprise me,” she said, but her voice was distant. Her gaze had dropped to his lap.

He grinned.

“My grandfather’s bow was down there,” he said, fingers stroking along the wood. “Along with all the other beasts and nightmares. That’s the most incredible part, I think - that something valuable was down there at all. The rest…” He waved a hand. “Horror. But  _this_.”

She glanced up to him, smiling with raised brows. “You,” she said, “are in the best mood I have ever seen you in.”

He chuckled. “Yes, I suppose I am.” He pulled back from his prize just long enough to tug his gloves off, tossing them aside. Then he traced the burnt Howe crest with his fingertip. “You know,” he mused, “when I stole my mother’s necklace and then was caught for it- I felt so  _stupid_. It wasn’t even the one thing I would have cherished. I thought I would have rather had one of my father’s signet rings, or one of Delilah’s kerchiefs. But this… no, this is better than the rest. And I haven’t seen it in  _years_.”

“You haven’t been above ground more than ten minutes, have you?” she asked, and he glanced to her, shook his head. “You should get some rest.”

He blinked. “… Are you telling me to leave you alone?”

“I think you’re exhausted. Elated, but exhausted. This is no place for you to be sitting around.”

“You’re very good at trying to push me away, you know,” he said, leaning forward. “What if I want to be here?”

“Are you hiding?”

“Maybe a little.” He ducked his head. “But that’s not so bad. Retreating to a known ally to share fortuitous news…”

“An ally?” She hummed thoughtfully. “Is that how you… see me?”

“I can’t think of any other way to name it,” he said with a shrug and an experimental glance up. She was watching him, a sort of stunned expression on her face. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not a problem at all. A little unexpected, that’s it.”

“Of course you’re an ally. I wouldn’t bring meals to a sleeping enemy, would I?”

There was a huff of laughter from her. “I wasn’t sleeping,” she said, skin around her eyes crinkling. She lifted a hand to scrub at her cheek and lips, and for the first time, he wondered how long it had been since she had bathed. How much dirt was layered over her skin, darkening the frown lines across her face?

He’d have to ask them to send her some water. She couldn’t be comfortable.

Cauthrien rolled her shoulders then, and leaned forward with her elbows braced on her knees. “How do you find being a Warden, then? Triumphant?”

“Dirty. Disgusting work,” he said, finally looking away from the lines at the corners of her mouth. “But exhilarating, after a fashion.  _Right_ , I suppose. Terrifying always, though.”

“Better than thieving?”

“Better than thieving.” His fingers trailed over the bow in slow patterns, idle movements as he thought. “Is there anything you want for dinner in particular? Something I can have the kitchens make?”

Cauthrien glanced towards the door. “Do you even know if it is dinner time?”

“… I suppose it was dark when we surfaced. But I can at least get you some bread. Ale, if you like.”

“There’s no need,” she said, and he caught the barest hint of a smile again. A true smile, before it turned to just a wry quirk of her lips. “They brought me one better than pease porridge today.”

“Did they?”

“Baked apples,” she said, “and fresh cream. Though the cream nearly killed me.”

“It can do that,” he chuckled. His laugh, the easy richness of it, made him pause after a moment, and flush, and then shake his head. “You’re sure, though? Nothing?”

“Nothing now. Maybe in the morning, if you haven’t been dragged off on another mission?”

“Maker, I hope not. I hear we’re following a lead on another Deep Roads entrance next. I’d like at least a whole day above ground,” he sighed. “And a day’s rest to practice my marksmanship would be appreciated, too. It was shameful, how often I missed. It’s been a long time.”

“Rest,” she told him. “Go on. I’ll be here tomorrow.”

“And so will I,” he said, pushing himself up with a groan. “My joints might not, but I will be.” He looked to the door, then back to her. “… Do I really smell foul?”

She wrinkled her nose. “You’re covered in darkspawn offal. Of course you stink.”


	4. Chapter 4

There was a room for just this purpose, Nathaniel thought as he shifted uncomfortably in the audience hall. There was a room with a grand table for maps, with comfortable chairs, with nice windows to take advantage of the unseasonably nice weather. Instead they were working with Vana’s gestures (not even grand, not even expressive) standing close enough to the fire that sweat rolled down his back beneath his armor in unrelenting rivers.

She seemed unfazed by it all.

“Colbert and Micah,” Vana was saying, “mentioned darkspawn, in numbers great enough that there’s a good chance we have an entrance to the Deep Roads. Why it’s not on any maps, I have no clue. Idiot surveyors, maybe.” She glanced over her shoulder at where Captain Garavel and the seneschal stood. Garavel frowned, and Vana turned back to her arrayed Wardens.

“We run this the usual way. Go to take a look, but bring enough supplies that if we end up locked in a mine-” Anders flinched and grimaced- “or on a trawl for two months-” it was Velanna’s turn, as well as Nathaniel’s; only Oghren seemed unaffected- “it’s not a problem.”

His mouth parted with a protest. He may have lived months at a time on his own resources in the Marches, but he had also learned the necessity of supply lines, of something more than a small band being bent in on any important, long-term mission where there were no farms, no towns. But Vana was already moving.

Cauthrien would know what to do. She’d know how to lead.

Nathaniel only followed with a scowl and the momentary relief of being away from the fire.

  


* * *

He wondered if it was some divine joke that the sun was so high and bright as they approached the gorge. It was near-blinding, and the lack of living trees to provide shade didn’t help. Blinded by light, and soon by the absence of it. He wrinkled his nose and shaded his eyes, then followed Vana down the rickety wooden steps.

Anders remained at the keep; a wayward explosion courtesy of Dworkin experimenting with bombs had left four injured before they left, and Vana had ordered him to stay and assist. Anders hadn’t seemed too put out by it, and had even been flirting with Sergeant Maverlies as the injured were brought in from the site of the accident on makeshift stretchers. 

Behind Nathaniel, Velanna was talking to Oghren about dwarves. Not the topic of conversation he would have picked, since it seemed to surround them constantly, but Nathaniel supposed it made sense. They were, after all, approaching dwarven lands in truth. He tried to remain focused, watching downed rubble for any signs of lurking ‘spawn. But it was hard when Oghren’s rumbling voice kept drawing his attention.

It was Velanna’s that made him glance back, though, her offended, “You think I’m  _bony_?”

“Yeah. Look at that rump! You call that a rump? A man needs some cushion-“

“ _Oghren_ ,” Nathaniel said, frowning.

“What?”

“That’s no way to speak to a lady.” Or to anybody, really. He wouldn’t particularly like his rear being commented on.

“She asked,” Oghren said, shrugging, and then he shouldered past Nathaniel and tromped down the stairs to catch up with Vana.

Nathaniel shook his head. “Would that we all could let criticism roll off us that way,” he muttered. And then he looked back to Velanna, whose jaw was tight and who was pointedly not looking at him. He cleared his throat. “I- and he was wrong, by the way. You’re not bony.”

“Great. So now I have both  _shemlen_  and  _durgen’len_  watching where I walk,” she snapped.

Nathaniel flushed. “I didn’t mean-“

“Start walking.”

He closed his eyes and took a steadying breath, and then turned away. Right. No complimenting the terrifying Dalish woman who could probably kill him with a thought - at least not on her physique.

He gave half a thought to how Cauthrien might have responded to it (if she hadn’t  _been_  bony), and then shoved the thought aside. There was work to be done. Not- skirts to be chased. And certainly not hers, or Velanna’s, or anybody’s in the present company.

Maker. He was going mad.

They were halfway down the stairs when he heard Vana’s shout, and he broke into a run, banishing all memories of tumbling down a very similar set of stairs when he was younger. The back of his head began to buzz not two steps from the ground, and he growled just as Velanna hissed,  _“Darkspawn_.”

“Yes, I noticed,” he said, drawing an arrow and nocking it as he dropped to a half-crouch, close to one of the walls. He looked around the corner just in time to see darkspawn dragging somebody away, and for one wild moment he thought it was Vana. But then he saw Vana charge, and the woman kick herself free.

He loosed his first arrow.

The battle was blessedly short, but it was loud, and he fought to keep his wits firm. The first battle of the day was always the hardest. The adrenaline surge was new and fresh and potentially overwhelming, and while his body sang from head to toe, his fingers twitched a little too quickly, his touch rested too lightly. Vana and Oghren never seemed to have that problem, and Velanna may have made it a game, for all that she seemed fazed by it.

Yet another thing that set him apart, he thought, as the last hurlock dropped and he slunk from the perch he had found.

The woman they had rescued pulled her helmet off, and he could see beyond her heavy tattoos a grin. “Thank the Ancestors,” she said, and he saw Vana smile in turn. “Are you from Orzammar, then?” the woman continued. “I’m Legion. Well, I was. Up until about an hour ago.”

Vana shook her head. “No, from the surface. Are you alright?”

“I might have cracked a rib, but it’s hard to be sure. Everything hurts.” She sounded chipper despite the injuries he could count, and Nathaniel quirked a brow at the still-smiling dwarf.

Vana didn’t see the amusement, at least, and she looked back to the two of them. “Velanna?”

“I am not your medic,  _Commander_ ,” Velanna groused.

“We can use all the help we can get,” Nathaniel whispered, and Velanna snorted.

“Which is why we have  _you_.”

He bit back a retort when Velanna left his side, holding out a faintly glowing hand.

“Oh, wow- an elf?” the woman said, and then she shivered and squirmed as the spell wove through her armor. “And a- mage? Oh, that feels… odd.”

“It does, doesn’t it,” Vana said with a rough little laugh.

Sigrun inclined her head to Vana, and then to Velanna. “Thank you. Both of you- or all of you, I guess. But I should probably go back, foolish as that sounds. See if there’s anything I can do.”

“After what just happened?” Vana’s expression darkened as the other woman slid her helm back into place. “

“I’ll be fine,” the woman said, smiling. “No worries. But there’s- work to be done, down in Kal’Hirol. Work that… well, that I ran away from, I guess.”

“Kal’Hirol?” Vana nodded, slowly. “Voldrik mentioned. It makes sense now.” She took a deep breath, shaking her head. “How did you get away?”

“I just ran.” She looked down, scuffing at the stone, and Nathaniel found himself wondering at how old she was. The way she fought spoke of experience, but the way she stood now gave him pause. “The darkspawn have changed; they’re smart now. They destroyed the Legion. They cut down my friends, and my friends were quick. I saw them taking some of the women, and I wasn’t about to stick around for  _that_.”

Nathaniel frowned. “The women?”

“Yeah,” Oghren said, from where he’d squatted and now drank from his skin. “To make more of ‘em. It’s how they work.”

Velanna murmured something under her breath, and Vana visibly shuddered. Nathaniel felt his gut twist. “And you want to go back there? We want to go  _in_ there?”

“It’s not a matter of  _want_ , Howe,” Vana said, with a quick glance back. Nathaniel swallowed and ducked his head, and she turned back to the woman. “I will fight with you. We’ll avenge the Legion, and we’ll see whatever it is these darkspawn are doing.”

“What? Really?” Her tattoos did strange things when her brow furrowed. “Did I mention Kal’Hirol was a death trap? Why?”

“We’re Grey Wardens.”

He bit back a protest of  _you don’t speak for all of us_. They had come here to investigate the Deep Roads. They had come here to do their duty. Promising it to one woman was no different than what they had set out to do, and he took a deep breath.

“Ah,” the branded woman said. “My condolences.”

He took another one.

She rolled her shoulders and held out a hand to Vana. “Well, then. We should get going, I guess. My name’s Sigrun.”

“Vanadia,” the Commander said.

Oghren whistled.

“Bringin’ out the whole name. You get ‘er, Commander.”

Nathaniel groaned. At least some things didn’t change, Deep Roads or not. Vana only laughed, and he was left with Velanna to mutter pointed comments about Oghren’s concepts of propriety.

  


* * *

There was something about cutting down wave after wave of darkspawn that built a sense of camaraderie.

He supposed walking on floors made of writhing flesh and slaughtering corrupted grubs helped, too. Watching ghosts and overhearing talking darkspawn - that all contributed, didn’t it? All of the wretched laughter ringing in his ears day in and day out.

But at least Kal’Hirol was still lit, in unsettling shades of blue. He supposed that was a blessing - except that it never grew dark to signify night, and while that meant that it was easy to see and sense the darkspawn coming, it also meant that every time he tried to sleep it ended miserably. The only break he had was when his exhaustion stole into his limbs and took away the world for just a little bit.

Then the nightmares would come, and he would realize he was sleeping on some jut of stone that somebody’s head had once been bashed into, and he would wake and offer to keep watch.

Maybe, if he had known exactly what he was signing up for, he would never have come back. Maybe he would have never gotten the fool idea that this was some form of  _redemption_. But he knew, too, that it was something like redemption, like forgiveness. And he was good at it. Every day it got easier, just a little, and while the work was grisly, it was the right kind of work.

He had a sense that he didn’t understand everything that they were doing. Vana kept her council, and there were things he had missed, things Velanna stiffened over when asked about how she met the Warden and things Oghren muttered about. He was the newcomer, the one who hadn’t been there, and somehow, Sigrun didn’t take that spot from him. Maybe it was because she was a dwarf. Maybe it was something else.

When they made camp, and Vana sat with Sigrun and Oghren (but mostly Sigrun, because Oghren would usually wander off to take a piss and then drink until he settled down to sleep still half in his armor), and Velanna sat off by herself with a journal, Nathaniel oiled his grandfather’s bow and tried to settle into it all. He was no spoiled noble’s son. His years in the Marches had not been spent idly, and he had lived long months on nothing but what he could trap, sleeping nowhere except where he could build. He knew camp life. It was the flavor of darkspawn blood that tinged it all.

And his one ally, the one person he felt he  _knew_ , was far above him and, he hoped, safe.

He didn’t let himself think of her often. There was no point to it; she was there, and he was a Warden, here, where he belonged. He was doing what he had to. But sometimes he fell to wondering at her life, and at what went on behind her eyes (grey, he remembered, or was it blue? - and then frowned, because when had he noticed?). Endless days in a straw-lined cell… what did that do to a woman?

Made her proud and stoic and quiet, he supposed.

In a place so soaked in memory, to the point where he could see the ends of so many souls with his own eyes, it was hard not to consider the past. A Blight just gone, a father dead- a choice made. Disgrace - and honor, too.

He hated making camp. It gave him too much time to  _think_.

  


* * *

He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised when Vana told them all that Sigrun had decided to take the Joining. It was inevitable, really. She had no Legion to return to, from what he’d overheard, but she was dedicated to killing darkspawn. And she spent more and more time at Vana’s side, laughing and joking in a place that Nathaniel still couldn’t imagine allowed it.

Still, it made something in him rankle a bit.

Was the choice so  _easy_ , then? Velanna and Sigrun had volunteered. He had, too, but it was hard to untangle from the memories of slinking along the countryside.

Whatever camaraderie existed between them all, he thought, stopped when it came to sharing information. They ate their meals together, they shed blood together, but when quiet settled Vana was selective in who she spoke to and what she spoke of. Sigrun was already inside of it all. Nathaniel slunk around the edges, wary and uncertain.

So it didn’t surprise him, not really - but that didn’t mean he trusted Vana to have told Sigrun enough, and something about her made him want to give her fair warning. He hadn’t had any such courtesy; she deserved more.

“You really want to do this?” he asked her when they had a moment alone, Vana leading them up out of Kal’Hirol and towards the light. She moved as if nothing had happened just the day before, no broodmothers and no talking darkspawn, no word of a  _Mother_  and no mention of an  _Architect_. Vanadia still hadn’t given him a satisfactory explanation, only the grim order to do what was necessary.

Sigrun shrugged. “Why not? Being a surfacer won’t hurt me any, and I’ll be doing a good thing. Maybe it will make up for… for running.”

“A chance at redemption,” he murmured.

“What was that?”

“Oh- nothing. Just understanding. I think that’s why a lot of us are here.”

“A lot of us are here because Vanadia dragged us all down here,” Sigrun said with a laugh. “She’s… something, isn’t she?”

He looked after her. “Yes,” he said. “ _Something_  is an apt description.”


	5. Chapter 5

After nearly two weeks below the ground, they surfaced to grey skies and chill weather. The sun was a blessed sight even if it blinded him, dim as it was, and food that was not hardtack or deepstalker warmed him through in a way that the oppressive heat of distant lava flows hadn't. Kal'Hirol quickly became a memory, one he shoved aside and refused to think about. Talking darkspawn and broodmothers could wait for darker times.

He allowed himself to think of the Vigil once they were on the road again. He allowed himself, too, to think of Cauthrien. Three weeks alone in that prison- he felt guilty. But she was used to it, and she bore it with her own particular type of strength. He could imagine her, back straight even in repose, hair unmatted from careful finger-combing, face thin from lack of food but alert all the same.

He decided, half a day out, that he would bring her breads and cheeses and Antivan brandy. And he would sit with her while she ate, more than once a day, when he could. It was the least he could do. And even though those weeks below the surface had left him more firmly bonded with the others,  _she_  was still his one ally. He missed her.

Nathaniel tucked the thought away, along with its accompanying surge of nervousness (he missed her?), when they passed through the gates to the keep. Oghren cheered for it, and even Vana smiled. Nathaniel felt himself sagging with relief and blissful exhaustion already.

And then he caught a glimpse of silver hair, pointed ears, and a limping walk he would have known ten or twenty or fifty years from then.

"Samuel? Groundskeeper Samuel?" Nathaniel broke into a jog, crossing the muddy space between them. "Is that you?"

"I- Little Nate? I'd know that face anywhere. I'd heard you'd come back" The old elf smiled.

Nathaniel found himself grinning back. How had he been here going on three weeks now without seeing the man? True, he'd been out fighting darkspawn for the majority of it-

"Samuel, I am so glad to see that you've stayed on," he said, reaching out to clasp the man on the shoulder. "But how has it been here? Can you tell me what happened to my brother? My sister? How did they- news is scarce, in the Marches."

"Your brother died in the war," Samuel said, smile thinning as he shook his head. Nathaniel exhaled shakily. Cauthrien had implied as much; he supposed it was no real surprise, though he had hoped otherwise.

At least Samuel had survived the siege. Little bits of home, ones he didn't mind seeing again, were ever welcome. He used it to gird himself as he ducked his head and dropped his voice.

"And Delilah...? How did she die?"

Samuel's lips quirked as he shook his head. "Lady Delilah? She's not dead at all. She's in Amaranthine City, as far as I know - married a shop keep."

It was strange, the feeling of his heart both sinking and soaring triumphantly.  _Alive_ \- and so close by! And yet not where he had wanted to find her, and married off, no doubt to try to assuage her shame.

His expression darkened and the tension in his shoulders returned, childish ease fading away. "Thank you, Samuel."

"You need me, you come find me. I'm still in the same cottage," Samuel said, and Nathaniel nodded, watching him go as numbness and eagerness warred, making his fingers twitch.

"You thought your sister was dead?" came Vana's voice.

"And what else was I to think? My father was murdered, my brother died in the war- and she never wrote me. Of course I though she was dead. Everybody seems to be dead or dying these days," he snapped. He pinched at the bridge of his nose, turning away. "... When you were in the city last, did you see her?"

"Not that I recognized, no."

"I need to go there. I need to find her-"

"We don't have time to waste, Nathaniel," Vana said.

"It's hardly wasted time," he hissed.

"It's searching for a woman in a great city, when that woman can't help us against the darkspawn."

It was Sigrun who interrupted. "What if it was Rica?" she asked, voice quiet.

That made Vana still, though Nathaniel couldn't recognize the name. The two women looked at one another, Sigrun's brows climbing ever higher in question.

Vana sighed. "Fine. You're right. I'm sure there are merchants I should talk to for Woolsey anyway. But we leave  _tomorrow_ , after I have gotten some much needed rest and Sigrun has taken her Joining. Yes? Yes." And with a wave, the dwarf turned on her heels and stalked off to the keep proper.

Sigrun sidled up to Nathaniel. "What's that look on your face?" she asked, peering up at him.

"What look?"

"You look like you're about to kill the whole lot of us."

 

* * *

 

The next morning he awoke to shouts in the yard, and watched from his window as Vana stood before a roiling mob and talked them down from revolt. He could barely hear her words, but he saw the wave of relief, of loosening, go through the crowd. He watched them disperse.

He had half a thought to visit Cauthrien before they left, to at least bring her breakfast, but when he descended to the audience hall, Vana was already in armor. Sigrun was beside her, wearing gleaming new chain and testing the balance of a beautiful longsword.

Nathaniel plucked at his worn leathers self-consciously. His sister might laugh at him, for his disrepair, if she could find the good humor to laugh at all.

"Well," Vana said, "Let's go, then. You and Sigrun are with me."

They took horses to the city, Sigrun with her arm around Vana. It had been some time since he rode, and the focus it took was a blessing. It kept his mind off of  _Delilah_. It kept his mind off of a sister he had thought dead, a past he had begun to view, finally, as closed.

The city rose up before them well before dusk, and they left their horses at the gate, in hands that Vana assured him she trusted. She led the way. It seemed perhaps a little odd, for her to stay in the lead for something like this, but he appreciated it.

They were halfway through the market, his heart pounding in his throat, when he saw a flash of dark hair, heard a laugh he hadn't heard in eight years. His heart stilled. He pushed through the slight crowd.

And there she was.

"Delilah? Is that really you?"

She turned at his voice and the sound of her name, and for a moment she only stared. She looked a little more worn, a little older, and her clothing was no longer the vibrant, soft silks of their childhood. It was wool and patched, and he felt a flood of renewed worry. But she smiled, beamed, and stepped forward.

"Nathaniel! Maker, I had feared the worst," she said, and in the space of a breath her arms were around him. He couldn't remember hugs like this, not from her or from father or from any of them, but it was more than welcome. It took a moment to remember where to put his hands, but then he was holding her just as tightly. "Father never told me to where to find you, and I would have tried, but-"

"Times must have been hard, Delilah," he said against her hair. He shook his head, pulling back just enough to look at her. Beneath her weariness, she looked lovely. Radiant. She always had. And Amaranthine- this was no place for her. "But I'm back now. Let me take you home. I'm sure that Vana- the commander- can make space for you, there are enough rooms. Yours, even, from when you were a little girl." He took a deep breath, unable to keep talking through his growing smile.

But Delilah frowned. "What? This is my home." And then she followed his gaze back to the small house behind her, and she shook her head, laughing. "Oh Nathaniel, I didn't marry Albert out of desperation. I adore him!"

"You-" He trailed off, frowning. This wasn't what he had expected, not at all. And she seemed so comfortable in her simpler clothing, the more he looked. "But Vigil's Keep..."

"Vigil's Keep hasn't felt like home for a long, long time, not with father there. I met Albert... when we met, father tried to keep us apart. But now I'm free. Free of him, and his evil, even if it means I don't get so many nice things from Antiva."

"Evil?" he scoffed, but a part of him sank. "Isn't that- overstating things a little?"

She looked down. "No."

"Delilah-"

"You weren't here. You didn't see what he did, hear the stories before they became rumors." Her hand drifted over her belly, absently. "Haven't you heard, now that you're back? You're living at the Keep, you must..."

"I came back to avenge him," he said, desperately.

"Avenge him? No, he doesn't need any avenging." Her expression hardened. "You want the culprit who destroyed our family? It was him, no question."

He swallowed.

"I had no idea. I thought the Wardens-"

Delilah shook her head and reached up to touch his cheek. "Of course you did. But you always worshipped father, right from when you were a little boy. Come on. Come inside and meet Albert. Have supper with us."

He looked back to Vana, but she was gone along with Sigrun. He took a deep breath and nodded. "I- that sounds wonderful, Delilah. Yes."

 

* * *

 

They rode out of Amaranthine well after nightfall, Vana claiming that she didn't want the cost of a night in the Crown and Lion or a night of stabling two horses. Nathaniel didn't argue. He rode fast by her side, though his head was a little fuzzy from drink and revelation. He kept his hand light on the reins, but his other fisted around the pommel of his saddle, knuckles white beneath his gloves.

"So," Vana said when they were a good half hour from the city walls, "did it go well, then? Are you satisfied?"

He looked over to her, and Sigrun resting with her cheek against Vana's back.

"She said she wants me to come back, once all this is done. Meet her husband. She's due by the spring." He smiled thinly, then looked back out at the road. "She seems happy, at least. Happier than me by far."

"And did she tell you about your father?"

His throat bobbed. "She did. She said he deserved to die."

"Do you believe her?"

"I thought he had his reasons. It was a war. Wars-"

"But do you  _believe_  her?" Vana asked, and it was as much a warning as a question. He steadied his breathing, or tried to, tried to match himself to the rhythm of the horse beneath him.  _Yes_ , he believed Delilah. How could he not? But that didn't mean he could force it all down, or arrange it in a way that made sense.

"I- yes," he said when he could speak again without shouting and trying to tear the world down. "Yes, I do. But I don't know what  _happened_. Before I went to the Free Marches, he was never... how could he have changed so much?"

Vana nudged her horse still faster. "Maybe he was never who you thought he was," she said.

Nathaniel mimicked her, the cool wind soothing on his tensed brow. "I suppose not. I wish I'd known this sooner. I feel like such a fool."

And he needed to talk to Cauthrien.

 

* * *

 

It was several hours before dawn when they reached the keep. When he handed off the reins, he should have gone up to his room and slept.  _A long day_  was an understatement, and his thighs and arse ached from the ride. His head refused to stop throbbing.

But he made instead for the prison door, throwing it open with more force than was necessary. He heard her start in the corner of her cell, and then ask, voice thick from sleep,

"Nathaniel?"

"It's me," he said, closing the door behind him and stalking down the short hallway.

He heard her hand pass through her hair, the shift of straw as she sat up. "It's been a long time," she said.

"Has it? I suppose it has." The torch on the wall was dying down, and so he grabbed up an unlit one from a nearby sconce, holding it to the flame until it caught. Light bloomed out and he shoved it into the metal holder, discarding the original.

"My sister's alive," he said as he settled down across from her, hissing at his muscles' protests. "She's alive, and happy. Married. With child."

"You saw her?" Cauthrien asked, moving closer to him.

Nathaniel nodded.

"That's wonderful," she said, and then she hesitated. "That is wonderful, isn't it?"

"It's incredible. Yes. Yes, it's wonderful," he said, but it was muttered through a tight jaw. "But she told me things- about what happened. About father."

Cauthrien's expression froze, then fell. "Ah."

"... You didn't tell me any of it," he said, and she shook her head, a tiny motion that he barely caught.

"No," she said. "I didn't."

"You could have told me. You  _should_  have told me-"

She interrupted him with a raised hand and a curt, "Would it have mattered?"

"Of course it would have mattered!" he snapped. "That's something important, don't you think? I believed in him. I thought that whatever he had done, it was just misguided, because of the war."

"Some of it was. Some of it was taking advantage of the situation."

He shook his head, moving forward onto his knees and curling his fingers around one of the bars. She glared back at him. "And him moving his bedroom to be by the stairs to the dungeon, in Denerim?" he hissed. "Where does  _that_  fall?"

She closed her eyes, expression tight and drawn.

"Tell me, Cauthrien.  _Tell me_. You knew about that, didn't you?"

She said nothing, and he loosened his fingers to slam the heel of his hand against the metal instead. "How much did you  _know_!"

Cauthrien inhaled sharply and turned her head away, opening her eyes and staring at the far wall. Her fingers curled into fists in her lap, and he could see, beneath the dirt and grime, the muscles of her throat tense and jump. "Quite a bit of it," she said, and then she rose to her feet, turning away from him.

He stared.

"And you never thought to tell me."

"What would you have had me do? Told you every deed I knew your father had committed the moment I recognized you?"

"I would have liked to know that my father was a  _rapist_  and a  _murderer_  before throwing myself on Vana's mercy! I would have liked to know that before showing my face in Amaranthine! Nobody  _told_  me!"

"Vana could have. She saw the dungeons," Cauthrien said, bracing a hand against the wall.

"Well, she  _didn't_. You could have. At any point, you could have. When I asked about my  _brother_ , you could have-"

"You said you didn't want to be judged by your father's name, Nathaniel. And so I didn't."

"You let me believe-"

"I let you believe  _nothing_." She whirled on him, face contorted with rage. "I said  _nothing_  because it has never been my place to do so. I was forced to say  _nothing_  while your father helped destroy this country, and I said  _nothing_  when Loghain asked me why I was too late to save your father's wasted, miserable life. I was allowed no part in stopping him, and so I will take no part in any of him."

Her usually pale face had gone deep red from fury, and her lips would not stay still, twisting and twitching into a snarl. Nathaniel stood, meeting her gaze, refusing to quail from it.

"And you? What about you?" he asked, trembling. "Defending his name- Are you really some misled knight, or were you like him, hiding your depravity behind the excuse of war?"

"Nathaniel-"

"It's apparently a very easy thing to do," he snapped. "It wouldn't surprise me in the least. Some of the stories they tell about you-"

"Nathaniel!"

He swallowed, breath hitching and coming in uneven gasps. "You  _knew_. All of this."

"Get out," she said.

"You  _knew_."

" _Get out_."

He stared at her, heart twisted and sinking leaden in his chest, and then he turned and stalked out of the room. Before he closed the door to the prison, he heard the slam of flesh against steel bars. And then he shut her away.

 

* * *

 

He stalked the grounds aimlessly, hoping only to exhaust himself into some sort of quiet. His mind sped from battlement to battlement, unrelenting, unceasing. He could only listen again and again to his sister's words. He could only see Cauthrien's face, angry and hurt and terrible. He was left only with that, and the images his mind would conjure of his father.

He picked up a piece of rubble left over from the siege and threw it, hard, against the far wall. When it didn't so much as fracture, he swore and took the steps up to the wall two at a time.

How he had managed to keep hold of himself at Delilah's, he didn't rightly know. Maybe it had been her presence, or the food she had laid out before him, the talk of a nephew. And on the ride back, it had been a petty determination not to show weakness to Vana. But with Cauthrien, it all spilled out.

He wanted to  _scream_.

His father. His  _father_ , a rapist, a murderer - Delilah had been kind with how she had phrased things, but Nathaniel knew enough and had heard enough stories to fill in the gaps. Delilah didn't know the worst of it; she had only visited Denerim twice during the war. But Cauthrien did, and Cauthrien had refused to tell him, and in the absence of details his thoughts twisted into dark and horrible images.  _Bedroom by the dungeon_.

That man had been  _his father_ , and he had always had faith. He had trusted Rendon. He had kept the faith that one day his father would bring him home, would give him his knighthood, and everything would be as it should have been.

And instead, he came home to a blackened name that had every reason to be blackened. His father, a monster. His father, little better than the  _darkspawn_.

When it started to rain, a drizzle that gave way in under a minute to a pounding deluge, he gave up on holding it in, and yelled. Three guards turned to look at him. He glared. They left him alone, and he bowed his head, panting for breath and closing his eyes.

He could do this. He was a grown man, and he was already on his way to redeeming  _himself_ , at least, if not his name. He was a  _Warden_. Wardens did not throw temper tantrums.

But he did need a drink. Desperately.

He was soaked down to the marrow when he stalked into the mess hall, hair tangling around his throat and boots squelching. He was greeted by a low snigger, and he closed his eyes, waiting for the rest to follow.

"Back from visitin' your broad?" Oghren asked from where he was propped against the wall.

Nathaniel growled and covered his face with a hand. This was the bloody  _last_  thing he needed right now. Finding his sister alive wasn't supposed to do this to him. It should have made him  _happy_. It shouldn't have ruined any concept he had of home, left him bedraggled and sopping wet with a hoarse throat and the growing uncertainty that he was a  _child_.

And he didn't want to think of Cauthrien, not how they had parted.

"She's not- she's not my  _anything_ , thank you," he replied, clipped and curt.

"You sure about that?" came Anders' voice. Nathaniel turned towards it, letting his hand fall and opening his eyes. The mage was slumped at the end of the table, chin on the wood as he blinked at him blearily. "I mean, a fellow goes down to see somebody, in chains no less, every time he comes home... sounds like something. You know.  _Something_."

" _Anders_ ," Nathaniel muttered, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

"'s just  _saying_ ," Anders slurred, and grinned. "A'sides, seems like you'd have a thing for- war criminal whatsits."

His lip twitched and curled. "Do I, now."

"Well I mean, with your father and all..." Anders shrugged, and Nathaniel resisted the urge to find new and exciting ways to bash a man's skull in. "And," Anders continued, settling so that his cheek was against the table, "you and the prickly types. Like Vela... Velanna- Velannana."

"She'd be so happy to hear her call her that, I'm sure." He stalked across the room to the other table and grabbed up a few bits of dried beef. "Perhaps you should go and tell her that you've discovered her new name."

"You know? That sounds like a  _great_  idea."

Oghren grunted a laugh from the corner. There was a clatter - him sinking down to sit, Nathaniel supposed. He ignored it and found the bottle of whiskey and took a swig from it.

" _That's_  my boy!" Oghren crowed, and Nathaniel winced at it and the burn trailing down his throat. "Knew you- had it in you-" His speech was punctuated by what Nathaniel expected were either hiccups or tiny seizures, and he set the bottle aside with a hard  _thunk_  and headed for his room.

He needed to sleep. That was what he needed.


	6. Chapter 6

Sleep refused to come easily. The room was too cold and yet his blankets were too hot, he was too awake and yet too exhausted, and none of it added up to  _darkness_. He could hear the keep beginning to stir, and he could hear the rain continuing to pound. He took to letting his head thud against the wall gently, in time with every other heartbeat.

Maybe he could knock himself unconscious.

He fell into a sort of numbness by dawn, sitting on the floor by his narrow bed. He stared somewhere at the join between wall and ceiling. It was a resigned thing, the fatigue settling in his limbs and brain. Too tired to be angry, and too twisted around to sleep. The thoughts and images had slowed, at least. He had somehow settled on the sound of Cauthrien striking the bars of her cage, and on her at her full height, all dirty trousers that hung loose on her hips and blackened feet.

He winced at the memory of what he had said to her, what he had accused her of. It had been the moment, raw and burning. Now he couldn’t imagine her doing any of the things he had heard stories of, or had thought to accuse her of. That wasn’t her; that wasn’t the noble, stoic woman who had been reduced to living in filth and took it with some lingering form of dignity.

Nathaniel frowned.

It wasn’t particularly fair, was it?

He had his sister, alive and well, and the others talked still of when Vana had killed the templar on Anders’ heels. Sigrun had a new purpose. They had all been given something, allowed something - but Cauthrien only rotted in the dark.

He scowled at the wall.

There was a knock on his door and he let his head fall to the side. “Who is it?”

“Your Commander.”

“It’s  _dawn_.”

“And I didn’t think you’d be sleeping. Can I come in?”

“No.” He let his head roll back and closed his eyes. It was freeing, saying that. “I’d like it more if you left me alone.”

“Is that a  _no, I will not be riding out to the Turnoble Estate today_?”

“That’s a  _no_.”

“Right.”

The latch shifted and it took him a second’s thought to realize she had let go of it. His mind spun. The others, she would have sat down with, but he didn’t want that. Didn’t need it. But-

“Commander?”

There was a scuff of boot on stone. Silence. And then a sighed, “Yes?”

“Can you have somebody take a basin down? So Ser Cauthrien can wash up? It’s disgusting down there.”

“It’s a prison.”

“She’s a human being, Commander.”

Vana didn’t responded immediately. He wondered if she was fighting the urge to snap at him, or if she was actually considering. He sank down against the wall. It didn’t really matter - Cauthrien would never speak to him again. What had she said?  _I will take no part in any of him_?

With a little distance and a little exhausted thought, he was fairly certain she had meant  _him_.

Still, dignity deserved to be met with dignity. He waited, fingers scratching a pattern on the stone behind him.

“Very well,” Vana said at last. “I assume you want it to be warm water?”

Nathaniel slumped to the side, against his bed, hand falling still. “That would be nice, yes,” he said. “And a cloth. And  _privacy_.”

“I’m not a monster, Nathaniel.”

 _No_ , he thought with a sigh.  _At least not by comparison_.

And then he closed his eyes and surrendered to the darkness folding around him.

 

* * *

 

Nathaniel woke once early on, curled on the floor with a crick in his neck, and only went so far as to tug off his boots and his leathers and climb sweaty and dirt-streaked into bed. He didn’t mark the time, but it was still light out. It was light, too, the second time he woke, but the sun was setting and he blinked blearily up at the ceiling.

He didn’t particularly feel like moving, but closing his eyes didn’t bring back the calm deadness of his sleep. His thoughts returned instead to the day before, the night before. Cauthrien’s anger, his rage, the intense feeling of betrayal in his very bones-

His stomach growled and he sighed, pushing himself up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

He washed before wandering down to the mess hall, redoing his braids and donning comfortable woolens. His boots from the night before were still soggy, but he pulled them on anyway, grimacing at how the remaining water seemed ice-cold. He should have stoked a fire before bed, he thought, but that would have taken energy and planning. He hadn’t been in the greatest possession of either.

The stairs down to the mess seemed to go on forever, but he was greeted by the scent of roasted meat and the blessed lack of Oghren’s belches. There were no quips from Anders (drunk or no) and no perky questions from Sigrun. Even Velanna was absent from her usual spot at the far end of the hall. It wasn’t empty by any stretch, but there was nobody there with any cause to bother him.

He dropped into a seat gratefully, and was halfway to filling his plate to sate his ravenous hunger when he realized what he was taking.

 _Braised ox tail_.

A quick glance around revealed no quince jam, but he knew exactly where the whiskey was. It quickly turned impossible  _not_  to think of it. It wouldn’t be so hard to bring her down a plate of meat, some bread, a bottle of whiskey. Even if she refused to speak to him, even if he had to leave as soon as the plate touched the ground-

It was worth a shot, wasn’t it?

 _Wager with a thief? No, thank you_.He could hear her voice perfectly, but he set it aside. He’d make the wager, although perhaps not gladly. Apologetically seemed a better descriptor.

He switched his plate for a larger one and piled it high with food, more than even he would eat at any normal meal, and tucked a fork into his belt. He stood as he worked, and after grabbing up an untouched bottle of whiskey and a cup in one hand and the plate in the other, he moved without hesitation for the door.

One of the servants opened her mouth to question, but something in his gaze must have made her decide it was a pointless idea. She opened the door for him, and he for the courtyard.

The rain had blessedly stopped, though it was like wading through mud to get to the small building that marked the above-ground portion of the prison. Sergeant Maverlies stood nearby at her post.

“Warden Nathaniel?” she asked.

“Open the door, if you would,” he said.

She eyed the meal he held. “That’s a great deal of food.”

“She hasn’t had much to eat these last seven months,” he said, sharply, and Maverlies swallowed any objection she had. It wouldn’t surprise him if the woman held Cauthrien responsible for the war in part, and for the first time he began to think about what the rest of the keep thought about their ever-present visitor.

Maybe that was why she was alone in that cell with nobody assigned to watch her most of the time.

She was alone this time, too. The stale stench that usually filled the room was all but gone; the straw was clean and new, there was a bucket now for her use, and she was washed and dressed in fresh clothing. Her hair was even tied back, long and waving, and she looked up when she heard his footstep.

She didn’t look happy.

“Nathaniel,” she said, shortly.

“Cauthrien.”

“The Warden said that I had you to thank for this morning.”

“I- yes. I asked for you. I hope you don’t mind?” He shifted uncomfortably, then approached and crouched, setting down the bottle and cup.

Her gaze fixed on the plate. “… What-?”

His smile was tentative and weak. “Braised ox tail. For the both of us, or for you. Either. And the whiskey is good and from three towns over. If you like.”

She didn’t respond at first. She stayed seated, though, and didn’t pull away, and he held his breath. He waited. He didn’t test his luck with more stumbling words, instead keeping his eyes averted to her knees.

“… Sit,” she said, and he exhaled shakily, eyes closing a moment before he set down the plate and followed it to the ground. “And no, I didn’t mind. It was… nice, actually. The water was still steaming. I’ve had buckets thrown at me a few times, but the water was always just short of freezing.”

“I don’t know how you bear it,” he confessed, wiggling the fork free of his belt and holding it out to her. She eyed it warily, then sighed and took it from him. There was still dirt beneath her nails, he noticed, which had been bitten short.

“I don’t know how else to bear it, except to go forward. There isn’t any other option.”

“Did Vana speak to you?”

“A little. Enough to tell me you were responsible, and that it hadn’t been her decision.”

He looked down to the floor, hesitating a moment before he put words to an old question.

“If she hates you so much, why didn’t she kill you?”

Cauthrien paused with both hands through the bars, fingers bracing one of the bits of bone as she tugged meat from it. “I… sometimes wonder that myself. If she wants to keep me from becoming a player in plots again, there’s little need to keep me in a place like this. A locked but well-appointed room would be much nicer.” Her lips twitched in a dry half-smile, but her brow remained furrowed. “Or she could have killed me. I would have exposed my neck to her blade. I wasn’t trying to save my life when I stepped aside. I was trying to save Loghain’s.” Her expression darkened, and Nathaniel’s lips pursed.

He reached for the bottle and poured her a cup of whiskey. “Here,” he offered and her exhale sounded like a buried laugh. She set down her fork to take it from him.

“Thank you.”

She carefully avoided touching her fingers to his; he could catch the tension in her wrist and hand, and in the way she pulled back not swiftly but with a firm determination. She raised it to him with a nod, then brought it to her lips and took a sip.

“I could ask her,” Nathaniel said, then frowned. “… No, I couldn’t.”

“No, you couldn’t,” Cauthrien said, smiling over the rim of her cup and taking another sip. “But the thought is appreciated. And at least you won her over to giving me fresh clothing.”

“I didn’t suggest that, actually.”

“Then perhaps something is changing.” She tipped the small cup back and finished the last of the whiskey in it, then reached through the bars to set it down. He filled it.

“I think it’s more likely that she wants me up and able to fight again soon. I begged off going out today.”

“Did you?”

“I was miserable this morning,” he said, shaking his head slowly. His gaze drifted to her hands where she resumed tearing at the meat. “An absolute wreck. Half passed-out in my room… still angry, of course. Guilty. Ashamed. Maker’s breath, the things I said to you-“

“Were uncalled for,” she said, voice clipped. But then she took her first bite and smiled around it, looking away. “This is a good recovery, though. … I didn’t expect you to come back.”

“And I didn’t expect you to want me here.”

“I didn’t expect that, either.” She took another bite of food, chewing it slowly before swallowing at last. “… But about what you said. About defending him. That is… not something I’ve ever wanted to do, not by choice. During the war, it was a necessity - protect a weak point against the enemy. That doesn’t mean I didn’t hate it.

“But-” She looked up, setting her fork down. Nathaniel watched her, tension beginning to creep through him once more at the mention of his father. “But how do you tell somebody who you enjoy talking to, who’s your only visitor, that his father was a monster? How do you risk that? If I had told you, you would have been just as angry as when your sister did. Or more. Why should you believe me, after all? From everything I’ve seen, you are very little like your father. And so I kept my mouth shut.”

His throat bobbed and his hands clenched, but he nodded. She was right. Of course she was right. Having all the time in the world to sit with nothing but her thoughts-

“And,” she added, reaching for her cup, “I don’t really like talking about him.”

Nathaniel nodded again. That was likely meant as a  _drop the subject_ , but that was far easier requested than done. His mind buzzed. He was too exhausted, still, to get caught up in the horror and rage of it all, but that didn’t make the images stop. His father in Denerim, pricking the Bannorn in little ways  even after Loghain’s treachery until the war was all but inevitable, taking not only palace funds by  _Fereldan_  funds-

And working no doubt closely from the woman sitting across from him who, as he watched, put back the entire cup of whiskey in one swallow. She looked up at the ceiling, letting out a long breath.

“Did he ever hurt you?” Nathaniel asked, quietly.

She didn’t respond. She let her head drop forward and rolled the wood between her fingers, turning it over. He watched as she worked food from her teeth with her tongue, as she pursed her lips, as she frowned. And then he looked away, throat dry and heart dropping.

“He never broke my legs like he did the legs of the son of Bann Sighard,” she said at last, and he flinched. He had heard of that, had written it off as a rumor. But she said it with such devastating simplicity, no sensationalism curling the edges, no details. The  _thunk_  of her setting her cup down made him close his eyes. “He never chained me down in the mabari kennels, though a rumor did start to that effect.”

Her voice never faltered. It never grew quieter. She didn’t hesitate on any word, and though she was offering denials, he still felt sick.

That she felt the need to assure him at all-

He swallowed.

“And beyond that?” he whispered.

For all it made his stomach churn and his skin crawl, he had to know. Cauthrien was his one ally, the one person he had felt a sliver of respect from, of understanding from. And if he was going to redeem himself, or his name or any of the rest of it- he would start not with killing darkspawn, but here, now.

And yet Cauthrien didn’t speak.

He opened his eyes to watch her, the flicker of emotions over her face that were small and twitching, as if she was unused to feeling them. Seven months in a prison cell, he thought, suffering with all the dignity she could muster.

“Please,” he said. “Tell me. And then I’ll go, if you want, or I’ll stay, or I’ll find his things and burn them to ash-“

She held up a hand. He fell silent.

“Your father was… very good at disguising his abuses. It was impossible not to know they went on, but you could never quite track them down, never quite find something that was  _inarguable_.” She passed a hand over her head, as if to comb her fingers through her hair, and she faltered as she encountered the tie holding it back. “And knowing that…” She shrugged.

“You were captain of the city guard,” he said, and she nodded. He looked down to her cup, then reached for the bottle. At another nod from her, he poured. “Last night, you said- that you could do nothing.”

“And that is one of my greatest shames.” She sighed and held out her hand for the cup. “I only wanted to protect my home. And I ended up helping to destroy it. You like the idea of redemption, but some things…”

“Did he make you do it?”

“ _Make_  is an odd word,” she said, and threw back the whiskey and tossed the cup towards him. It bounced twice on the floor and came to roll against his knee. He picked it up and filled it for himself.

“Will you tell me?”

“I said that I don’t like talking about it.”

“I doubt you get much of a chance to.”

He met her gaze. Her expression was still drawn and tense and he could guess that anger was in there, too. He supposed he should have backed down. But they had spent three days in the dark together, had faced the prospect of starving to death together, and so he waited.

Clean, with her hair back, she was a striking woman. Her eyes were hard and her brows drawn, her high cheekbones more imposing than attractive. There was something else beneath the tension, though, behind the way the tendons of her neck stood out where her loose, coarse-spun tunic hung open at the throat. There was something guarded, and for the first time he wondered if  _dignified_  was another word for  _closed_.

“I’ll listen,” he offered.

She closed her eyes. “It’s a long story. And not a particularly flattering one. To anybody involved.”

“I’ll still listen.”

“You are a very odd man, Nathaniel Howe.”

“But I’m nothing like my father. You said that yourself.”

She snorted. “… I did. You’re right, I did.”

 

* * *

 

He gave her a way out of the immediacy of it all by pushing the plate closer to the bars and taking his drink. It burned as it went down and made him feel a little more human, a little more steadied. And there was something about it - the offer of companionship that went beyond just sharing a dungeon room that was bound up in _listening_  and in eating together.

It was no pease porridge eaten in near silence, though the silence was still there. It was sharing a meal she had told him was her favorite, and he had brought as an offering. It was watching how she took measured bites to keep the rich food from turning her stomach. It was how they passed the cup back and forward, eventually dropping to alternating sips.

When she spoke again at last, more than little quips and quick smiles at his quiet comments, she sat back from the bars, filled cup in hand. She didn’t look at him then. She looked past him.

“Do you want me to snuff out the torch?” he asked, and a smile broke across her face. She shook her head.

“No,” she said, “but the thought is appreciated.”

The torch stayed lit and he could see every lowering of her eyes and tightening of her fingers around the cup. She started at the beginning, when she was a girl on a farm and a war hero met with bandits on the road. He’d heard that story before, but hearing it from her was a far more solemn thing, a quiet eulogy for a lost man. There was no romanticism in it, no heroics. Just a girl with an axe for clearing wood, and a man who didn’t need her help but accepted it anyway, and the change that came after it.

She told him, briefly, of finding herself in the army. He thought once to ask her why she started so far back, but then he decided he didn’t care. He found himself latching on to every little detail. She’d worn her hair short, she told him, until after she was knighted. Then she tugged on the long tail of her hair and let out an amused huff, shaking her head.

“It hasn’t been this long,” she told him, “since I lived on the farm.”

She sketched a picture of herself that was only duty; she offered no details about her loves, her passions, or even if there had ever been any. The only story was of her and Ferelden and Loghain, and slowly he fell into the adoration that thrummed beneath her words. There was pain in her eyes when she spoke of him, but there was pride, too.

When Cauthrien finished her cup, he offered her more drink. She waved it off, but reached for the plate instead. Between them they left only bones and a few dry crusts.

But she sucked on the bones and gnawed at the bread, and he realized she had come to the point in the story when his father came on the scene. He hid his grim smile by rising to refresh the torch.

“Are you sure you want to hear this?” she asked when his back was to her.

“I’m sure,” he told her, without hesitation. “If we don’t have total anonymity, why not have the opposite?”

Cauthrien said nothing in response, but when he turned back to her, she had a tiny smile on her face and had the cup in her hands, empty.

“You asked,” she said, “if your father made me destroy Ferelden.”

He nodded.

“And no, he never held a sword to my throat, or threatened to poison my food. He didn’t have to. It didn’t need to be so direct. Your father was a very, very clever man.” She settled the cup on the back of her hand, rolled it between her wrist and first knuckles. He’d never seen her make idle movements before.

“He knew I would never go against Loghain. I didn’t at Ostagar, and I wouldn’t in the middle of a war. I could not betray him. And he also knew that Loghain needed his support. And so when he needed a way to take what little influence I had from me, he had everything he needed. Loghain made me captain of the guard, and Rendon requested, through him, that his choices be considered for positions. I had no way to say no, no basis for my worries.”

“What did they do?” he asked as the cup tipped over and she jerked to catch it before it hit the floor.

“Made a mockery of me. Embezzled, extorted, blackmailed. There were rumors, too, that they used their authority to take advantage in other ways.” She scowled, but her gaze was distant. “I never proved any of them. They were your father’s men.”

“And you couldn’t just remove them?”

“I tried. But then Rendon would suddenly come up short with funds for the war, and our soldiers would be at risk of starvation, and he would need the gold those men’s families could provide- and then it was choosing between the city and the country. Of course I chose the whole blighted country, or thought I did.”

She set the cup down with precision, jaw clenching. “I could have still done it. Removed them from office. Maybe losing our source of gold - since your father had already all but emptied the coffers without me having any idea - would have made Loghain realize it was a fool’s errand. Maybe I made that mistake, too.”

“Cauthrien-“

“Let me finish. You asked for this,” she growled.

“Of course,” Nathaniel said, and bowed his head.

“Loghain refused to doubt him. When a man has enemies on all sides, he needs to know he has at least a few allies.  _You_  know that quite well, I think.” Nathaniel didn’t offer a reply. “And he knew always that I would not turn from him. So he could support Rendon against me, and keep me as his sword. But I allowed it. I could have done more than say  _my lord I am uncertain_. I could have pushed. I could have…”

“The only person who could have single handedly stopped the war,” Nathaniel said, leaning forward and reaching through the bars to take the cup, “was Loghain.”

She reached out as if to catch his wrist and stopped just short, instead catching his gaze. “Your commander might take issue with that.”

“My commander had an army, by all accounts. You had- what? Would Loghain have stopped short of throwing you in Drakon for treason? Worse?”

“I wasn’t thinking that way.” She looked away. “It was… I had to tell myself that it was all for the good. It was so important that I believe him, that I  _trust_  him- that even when I thought that he was wrong, I didn’t act on it. I buried it. I should have confronted him, even if it ended with my head rolling.  _That_  would have been protecting my home.

“And instead, my father and brother died fighting my troops. The Bannorn starved because of my torches. The people of Denerim suffered because I could not control my guard. Some of it was your father hurting me, yes. But a great deal more of it was me inflicting the injury.”

She sighed and pushed herself up, rolling her shoulders and beginning to pace. She was barefoot still, and her steps were quiet. He pulled the cup he still held into his lap, and he watched, turning it all over in his head.

_Father and brother died-_

“Knowing that,” she asked, voice soft, “would you name me a monster?”

He didn’t answer. The torch guttered and his gaze drifted to the bits of mold clinging to the stonework, the rust on the cell bars. He looked everywhere but to her.

“That’s what I thought,” she said, and for the first time, more than anger, pain broke through her voice. He focused on what had been the strong line of her jaw and saw the cracking of what he had called  _dignity_. Her armor fell away for just a moment as she closed her eyes and hung her head.

“I have known monsters,” he said, standing and coming close enough to curl his fingers around the bars. “Cauthrien-“

“Leave.”

“Cauthrien-“

“I do not appreciate being gawked at.”

“ _Cauthrien_.”

She lifted her head then and opened her eyes, but she didn’t look at him. A flicker of light caught on the curve of her cheek. His heartbeat seemed to falter.  _Tears_.

“You are not a monster,” he said. “Just a misled knight. I was wrong. I was angry, and cruel, and what I said last night-“

“You don’t have to say this.”

“ _Cauthrien_ ,” he snapped, and this time it touched a spot of anger in him. “Maybe you could have changed it. And maybe you are responsible for horrible things. But you are  _not_  my father and you are  _not_  Loghain, and you are  _not_  the darkspawn. You are not a rabid dog, or a sadist. You are not a monster.”

She didn’t say anything in turn, but her silence didn’t hold the same tension, the same fear. She curled her arms around her waist and she looked at the pile of straw in the corner of her cell, and she rolled the heel of her foot against the ground. He waited.

“I guess it hardly matters now,” she said at last.

“Has Vana said nothing about when she’ll release you?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. This is it, it seems.”

“… Then I’ll stay here.”

She barked a laugh and turned to him, cheeks spotted with tears but filled with high color as she grinned. “You are a  _child_ , Nathaniel Howe. A very determined, very petulant child.”

His face burned. “I- determined, yes. But I assure you, I’m fully grown.”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” he said, and he moved a half-step back, spreading his arms. “Am I not?”

“I suppose the darkspawn slaying helps with it,” she said, following him, leaning her forearm against the bars. She was all long limbs with a little tremble in them, but her smile, though smaller, hadn’t retreated. He counted it a victory even if his pride smarted.

“I’ll stay,” he said. “At least tonight. At least when I can. I slept in that cell for a few nights, and in worse back in the Marches, when I had to.”

“Are you saying I need a bedfellow?” she asked, a laugh waiting behind her words.

He rubbed at his jaw and tried to act as if he wasn’t blushing likely up to the roots of his hair. “That’s not- I-“

The laugh broke over her again, and she hung her head, the skin by her eyes crinkling and her shoulders shaking. He watched her, feeling his own lips tug up at the corners, and then he shook his head and walked into the cell that had been his home for a few long days in the dark. The straw had been changed there, too, and he did his best to fluff it with his boots.

He was sitting on his makeshift bed, wrestling the finally dry leather from his feet, when she calmed.

“Are you done, then?” he asked, grinning at the echo of her first words to him. She arched a brow at him, then lost her hold a few quieter chuckles.

He shook his head and stretched out on his back, looking up at the ceiling.

No, the infamous Ser Cauthrien was no monster, he decided. Perhaps a criminal- but weren’t they all, after one fashion or another? And she was a good woman beneath it, if a little caught up in honor and duty, in ideals.

And when she laughed-

“Goodnight, then, Ser Howe,” she said, and he heard her settle to the ground. He knew the sounds and though it had been well over a month since they had last shared space like this, it was comforting.

“Goodnight.” He turned his head towards her to find her watching him, curled on her side. “… And thank you.”

“For what? Ruining your image of your father a little more?”

“For trusting me,” he said. “And for telling me the truth.”

She looked at him with the smallest turn of her mouth - and then she nodded.

“Go to sleep, Nathaniel,” she said. “I’ll be here when you wake.”


	7. Chapter 7

"Howe!"

Nathaniel started awake, back sore and eyes twisting shut as if that could block out the noise. He groaned and rolled away from it.

"Howe, are you- oh, Ancestors. Get on your feet, man."

It was Vana. Of  _course_  it was Vana. And by the giggling behind her, it was Sigrun, too. He opened his eyes to a squint and looked over his shoulder.

And Velanna, looking disgusted as usual.

He heard the drag of fabric on hay and he craned his head. Cauthrien stirred, frowning and looking down the length of her curled body at the intruders. He winced as he imagined the hangover she must have had - four or more cups of whiskey and no water to go with it, no water likely since the morning before. She said nothing, though, and only watched as he stumbled to his feet and picked at the straw stuck in his hair.

"You know," Vana said, "I can just lock that door again. If you want me to."

"No," he said, grabbing up his boots and exiting the cell quickly. "That's not- no, it won't be necessary."

"Good. I need your bow again today." Vana smirked. "Time to head for the Blackmarsh."

"... Oh," Nathaniel said. "Joy."

"I'd take no for an answer and have Oghren or Anders with me instead, but I need somebody who knows the land at least a little for this, and I can't wrangle all of you blighters at once. We're going in looking for a missing Warden."

"A missing-?" Nathaniel said, frowning, as Vana turned and headed for the door without another word. He looked between her and Cauthrien, then mouthed,  _Later, later, I promise_. She nodded and closed her eyes again, curling tighter, and he shoved his feet into his boots and jogged out, laces flapping.

When the prison door was shut behind him and the morning sun made him squint and wrinkle his nose against it, Vana huffed. "We were finally able to follow up on some leads yesterday, during your sabbatical. We took a turn by the city. Sigrun and I visited the Crown and Lion and found some of an Orlesian Warden's things there - Kristoff. He's been missing over a month now."

"Nice of you to be so prompt with your search," Nathaniel groused.

"Income to arm the guard and rebuild the keep, and sabotaging a darkspawn encampment, are slightly more important than a single missing man," Vana replied, with a clipped coldness that made him shudder. "But we're taking care of it  _now_. Get your weapon and your armor and meet me at the stables in twenty minutes, Howe, and I'll forget that you were sleeping with Ser Cauthrien."

He flushed at her phrasing and nodded curtly, ignoring Sigrun's snickering - and the sudden laugh from one apostate mage who went, "Oy! So that's where you were. Heard you snuck off at dinner but then nobody knew where you went."

"Good morning, Anders," Nathaniel said, making eye contact only a moment as he strode for the main gate.

" _Good morning_ , he says. Ahah," Anders said, coming up alongside him. "Good morning  _indeed_. In the dungeons? That couldn't have been terribly comfortable."

"The commander's choice of words was unfortunate," Nathaniel said as he took the steps two at a time. "And the matter is, I might add,  _private_."

"You're no fun. Did you know that? No fun at all." Anders sighed. "Is this about the other night, when you were brooding?"

"When I was-"

"And when you gave me that  _horrid_  advice about Velanna's name-"

"No." Nathaniel rubbed at his stubble. "No, this is not about that, and if you'd excuse me-"

"Hey, listen," Anders said, voice dropping as they reached the front hall. He reached out and took Nathaniel's elbow. Nathaniel flinched. "Just- can you talk to the Commander for me? She doesn't take me  _anywhere_. And while I'm not complaining, you know - I mean, she's a good woman, there's good food, good drink, and she did take that pesky templar off my tail - I'd like to know if she... well, if she doesn't trust me anymore. Or doesn't, you know,  _need_  me."

"Are you saying that you're thinking of running, Anders?"

Anders considered for a moment, then shrugged. "I mean. If it came to it. I just want to know where I stand."

"Well, I'm hardly the one to ask her," Nathaniel said, unsure of what to say beyond the truth. "She might lock me up again."

"Well, I can't ask Velanna. Not after the  _Velannana_  incident. And I'd ask Oghren but then he'd forget the question."

"Ask Sigrun." Nathaniel shrugged. "That's all I can tell you. And that I wouldn't doubt that she has an eye on everything, and opinions on everything. With talking darkspawn about... maybe she just wants Wardens here on guard at all times, now that she has enough of us."

Anders pursed his lips, then nodded. "Well. I guess that's something, at least. Thank you. And good luck- with the lady in chains, I mean."

Nathaniel groaned. "She's not in chains, Anders."

"Behind bars, then. Slightly less steamy. More inconvenient-"

"Anders!"

"Sorry, sorry," Anders muttered, and Nathaniel took a deep breath.

There were heavy footfalls and short strides behind them, and Nathaniel swore, ducking into the shadows and towards the next room just in time to hear Vana call, "Anders? I believe I found something that should belong to you," followed by a tiny  _meow_.

And then Nathaniel made himself scarce, because he didn't need a sneezing fit from a mangy stray to reveal that he had wasted a good five minutes of his allotted twenty.

 

* * *

 

At least Nathaniel wasn't the only one wondering exactly what Vana's need for him was. Anders, though, had the benefit of a gift of a kitten; the whole ride to Blackmarsh had been filled with Vana telling Sigrun about it, with shared sniggering laughs as they rode. It only compounded the problem, seeing how close the two women were.

He looked to Velanna, who rode next to him in awkward silence, every so often muttering in elvish to her mount.

"Velanna?"

She sighed and closed her eyes before looking to him. "Yes?"

"Do you think the Commander hates me?" he asked.

"No." The dalish rolled her eyes. "If she hated you, she would have had you executed or locked up again, I'm sure. She at least finds you useful."

"I suppose that's something," he said, and Velanna huffed agreement.

"Yes," she said. "It's something." And then she tucked her heels into her horse's flank and broke forward, and Nathaniel was left following.

 _Useful_. There were worse things to be thought. And Velanna was likely right; Vanadia saw nothing wrong in keeping a skilled and good woman locked alone in a cell for eight months, after all. What was one archer with a skill at poisons and traps? He kept his head down another mile, another half-mile.

And then he gave in and nudged his horse faster, to ride abreast of Vana.

"Commander, might I have a word?"

Vana looked over at him with an arched brow, tugging at the scar that crossed her cheek. Sigrun, who had been telling some story or another, stopped in mid-sentence to look between them. "Depends on what word," Vana said at last.

Nathaniel swallowed. "It's about-"

 _There_. In the back of his head, the telltale buzz-

"Down!" he shouted, and slid from his horse, yanking its reins around until he could send it skittering off the way they had come. An arrow with a wicked barbed head struck the earth, passing through where its haunch had been just a moment before. Nathaniel swore and dropped low. His fingers caught the loop of his bowstring and he pulled up hard, seating it in its notch. He drew an arrow, nocked it, and waited.

The others had followed, and Sigrun was nowhere to be seen, already hidden by the twisting foliage around them. The first hurlock crested the rise in the road at a dead charge and at Vana's shouted order, he loosed his first shot.

It struck the beast in the knee. He nocked another.

Weeks ago the death howls of darkspawn had chilled his blood and added to his tainted nightmares. Now, while his skin still crawled, it was a matter of business. The Deep Roads did that, it seemed. And it helped that they weren't human. Killing humans- or elves, or dwarves or anything but beasts and darkspawn, that was dangerous ground.

He was not his father, though. And he was not Cauthrien, with her blade slicked with the blood of her people. This, at least, was easy.

They dropped five more before the full rush struck them. He caught a glimpse of Sigrun with one of her blades in a genlock's back just before a shriek struck him. He rolled hard, quiver spilling arrows, and reached instead for the dirk at his belt. A swift kick to what was something like its stomach and he was able to gain purchase.

It had a neck to slit like any other creature, and foul blood like any other darkspawn. He shoved it aside and got to his feet, hand raking the dirt to retrieve what arrows he could.

The forest creaked and roared; where Velanna had been frightening beneath the ground, here she was terrifying, arms raised and power dancing from toe to tip. The very branches seemed to heed her call. He had to tear his gaze away as Vana cried out.

Five hurlocks surrounded her. Three were already dead. He sheathed his dirk and hefted his bow; his fingers had remained clenched around it during the assault, and now he nocked one of his remaining arrows. He let fly, and it pierced one through the throat, just as Vana brought the last down.

The roaring of the trees faded. The buzzing in his mind stopped.

Nathaniel dropped to a crouch, lungs burning and body beginning to throb with all the pains that came only after the battle had ended. Shaking, he reached out to gather up what arrows hadn't snapped underfoot in the struggle.

He was lucky. He only lost two. A few had damaged fletching, but they would fly. He tucked them away and only looked up when he heard heavy footsteps with short strides approach.

Vana held out a hand. He took it with a wry smile; the leverage wasn't needed, but the gesture counted in some way.

"Good job," she said.

"Thanks. The horses-"

"Sigrun and Velanna are getting them." Vana let go of him, rolling her shoulders and settling her arms across her chest. "You had a question for me?"

"I- yes." He dragged his gloved hand across his mouth, wiping shriek blood from his lips. "It's about Anders."

"Oh? I didn't know the two of you were particularly close."

"We're not."

"Go on."

His mouth tensed and his lips pursed - but it was something to go forward with. It was the first time he could remember actually having her attention, not just her forbearance. "He wants to know why you don't take him with you."

"Simple," Vana said. "I don't trust him as far as I could throw him."

Her honesty was staggering, and he frowned, searching for words. "I- then why-"

"Make him a Warden? He's a skilled mage. We need skilled mages."

"And his templar?"

"A liability. Look, Howe." She unfolded an arm to jerk her thumb west, towards the Keep. "We're fighting something Weisshaupt and the Shapearate have never heard of. I need all the help I can get. Why do you think I took you on?"

"But if you don't trust him, why leave him at the Keep?"

"Somebody who can feel the darkspawn needs to be there, just in case. Oghren's there to watch him in case he tries to run, though I think that cat will keep him around."

"And you trust Oghren?"

"He proved himself back during the Blight."

"... And me?"

She grinned. "You? You're a damn good scout. And you're getting a little less insufferable every time it gets to killing. No, you're fine. Didn't expect it, but- you're fine."

"And Sigrun?"

That drew a laugh from her. "None of your damn business. Get your shit together and let's get moving." She nodded towards where Velanna and Sigrun were leading the skittish horses back. "Keep my back, Howe, and don't make me think you'll run out on me, and we're good."

"Right."  _We're good_. He shook his head and set off to join the others in calming the horses.

"Oh, and Howe-"

He paused. "Yes?"

"Don't question me about how I run my gang again."

 

* * *

 

"The thing you have to understand," Sigrun said from where she was perched behind him on his horse, "is that she's a Duster. It's that simple."

Vana rode ahead alone; her horse remained too skittish for a second rider, especially with the growing dark and the growing muck. Nathaniel frowned and looked over his shoulder to Sigrun.

"You say that word a lot, but like so many words, nobody will explain what it  _means_."

Sigrun shrugged, letting go of him with one hand to point to her cheek. He squinted. There was a brand there, much like the one that Vana's scar broke across. "It's that. It's... your family did something, way back when, and now you're nothing. Less than dirt. You have a dad who's a criminal or a grandmother who tried to start a coup and failed, and you get this when you're born and that's it. You can't even be a servant. You scrape by for what you can get, you steal and you cheat and you murder, and then you die miserable. Duster."

"That's-" His brow furrowed and he looked forward again. It was him, it was the Howes, but writ large. The brand was more a mark than any hooked nose of his, and he shifted uncomfortably. "You lived that?"

"Yep."

"With no hope of redemption? Of proving yourself?"

"Of course not." She sighed. "I mean, you have the Legion. That's as close as it gets. You were in Kal'Hirol, you heard the ghosts."

"I don't think I understood."

"No. I don't imagine you did."

Nathaniel fell silent, frowning and stroking at his horse's mane idly.  _No redemption_. The thought was dizzying- staggering. To have been  _born_  as he felt now, perhaps never knowing his ancestor's crimes, with nothing to work for in way of redemption or honor. No way to prove them wrong. No way to find another place to settle down in, and pretend it never happened.

It made him feel a little pathetic, really.  _He_  at least could kill darkspawn and maybe, one day, be seen by the people around him as worth something again. But Sigrun had just been sent down into the deep to die without anybody there to remember her.

 _Redemption_.

Well, if it was on offer it was all he could do to take it. Vanadia had extended it, and he would chase after.

He glanced over his shoulder.

"And Vana lived all of that, too?"

 _Vanadia_ , treated like dirt for an unknown crime-

"Oh, yeah. We never ran with the same gangs, though. I knew about her - well, her sister - but Dust Town is a lot bigger than it should be. It's..." She sighed. "It's what it is. And then I ended up in the Legion and she ended up a Warden. But it's the  _Duster_  in her that's the important bit."

"Do you think that's why she's given me a chance?"

Her snort devolved into snickering. "Oh, no. She's given you a chance because she needs another person between her and the darkspawn. It's why she wanted me to join, too."

"I somehow doubt that."

"Anyway-" Sigrun said, and he shook his head at how she danced away from the topic. "Anyway, what I was saying is- Dusters don't trust easily. And Dusters don't think that just anybody will have their back in a fight. You keep the people you understand closest. And she understands Dusters and she understands people who are rough and abrasive, and so she has us. Oghren's a good guy but he's Warrior Caste. And Anders- I try to tell her that Anders would be a lot of fun, but she doesn't know how to handle that sort of humor. So, it's us."

Sigrun, he decided, was very clever for all her perkiness.

"Were you eavesdropping earlier, from all the way down the road?" Nathaniel muttered, and she laughed.

"Of course!"

"You little  _sneak_."

"At your service, you big brooding  _noble_."

Mud squelched beneath his horse's hooves and he slowed them down, turning again to look over his shoulder. "... I had no idea about the Duster thing. Thank you. It's... enlightening."

"It is what it is." Sigrun shrugged. "But if she keeps you around, it means no matter what else she feels about you, she trusts you and needs you."

"Good to know, I suppose," he said, and sighed.

Ahead of them, Vana called out to stop. The horses wouldn't go much further, and Velanna had already dismounted and stood frowning, looking around them.

"The Veil is thin," she said when they approached, horse tethered to a more solid patch of ground. "Tread carefully."

 

* * *

 

 _Tread carefully_ , indeed.

Nathaniel hated the Fade. He hadn't known that before stepping foot in the Blackmarsh, but he was more than certain of it now. Being knee-deep in mud and muck was unpleasant enough. Fighting werewolves and darkspawn was bad enough. But being  _in the Fade_ , even dry and a little warm, was far, far worse.

They had found Kristoff, at least - late, as he had expected, and dead, as he had feared. They had found more talking darkspawn, more news of the Mother. The plot thickened, and he didn't like the feel of it at all.

He comforted himself with the thought that at least he was fulfilling a little boy dream, putting an end to a story his father had woven him back when things were all right.  _Save the Blackmarsh_. By slaughtering demons and staggering through hazy, shifting  _ideas_  of swamps.

It was not his idea of a good story, but he supposed it could have been somebody's.

Then, he had imagined himself a knight, riding in and slaying evil. He couldn't have been more than ten. He certainly didn't think at the time that the horse's hooves would have gotten stuck in the grime, or that his gleaming silverite armor (because of course at the time he had nothing but disdain for light armor, thinking it boring and not  _good_  enough) would have been gummed up into a statue after the first fall in the mud.

There was something a little glamorous about it, at least. Maybe it was the fresh understanding of Vana; it changed the way he watched as the Commander pushed forward and ordered them ever onward. She was him, or what he could have been, and she had become a paragon, if the stories were true and he understood the words enough. She was at least the Hero of Ferelden and a veritable force of nature. The Fade didn't slow her down for an instant.

So there it was: slay the talking darkspawn, maybe have a statue erected in his honor (even if it was a small one made out of mud, as long as it wasn't summarily stomped on), and ride off into the sunset away from marshes and swamps.

Better than commanding his father's garrisons.

 

* * *

 

Nathaniel laid on his back, in the mud, and stared up at the night sky. It seemed appropriate that it should rain and throb with lightning and thunder, but of course it did neither. The pounding of his head was a decent stand-in, though, as was the sweat still tracking down his brow and cheeks.

"Get up," Vana said, and he grunted in return. "Or we'll leave you."

"Five minutes," he muttered.

The creature in Kristoff's body approached and peered down at him with glassy eyes. Nathaniel wrinkled his nose, though the smell of the muck overpowered any odor of death. "There is work to be done," it said. "Are you injured?"

Nathaniel frowned and looked down at himself, taking the time to wiggle his fingers and toes.

"No," Velanna answered for him. "He's not. And I for one would like to get out of this place."

"Then you should stand," Justice said, and Nathaniel groaned.

Sigrun joined Justice and went so far as to nudge Nathaniel with the toe of her boot. "It's not so bad," she said. "Whatever it is that's keeping you down there. Think of the mud, and everything that's  _in_  that mud."

Nathaniel closed his eyes.

He didn't like demons, he decided, or talking darkspawn, or the Fade, or blighted werewolves, or  _any_  of it. Had he really thought just that afternoon that killing darkspawn was easy? Compared to men, at least. But it was all very messy work that left his whole body aching to the bone.

" _Nathaniel_ ," Vana said, and with another groan he rolled onto his side and pushed himself up.

"You know," he said as he tried to wipe the worst of the mud from him, "I don't think this is what Garavel had in mind when he said to bring back Kristoff." He looked at Justice sidelong, and Justice looked back placidly.

"I don't really care what Garavel had in mind," Vana replied, and Nathaniel had to admit he had expected that. "If Justice is willing to aid in our task, I see no reason to deny him. Though," she added, "it will make the ride back a little more awkward."


	8. Chapter 8

He supposed, as they approached the Vigil, that he should be grateful that somewhere in Justice’s borrowed head there was the memory of how to sit a horse. Nobody wanted a moldering corpse behind them, and few would trust a spirit of the Fade at their back. But while Justice rode placidly by Vana, it left  _him_  with a very tense elf sitting behind him, back overly straight and hands tight on his waist.

“You could relax a little, you know.”

Velanna sniffed. “Hardly. I don’t want to get your filth all over me.”

He sighed. “Of course not,  _my lady_.” If he had been less exhausted, it might have come out with more bite. As it was, he shifted forward in the saddle a little more.

She moved behind him, and her grip loosened. “That’s a very human thing to say.”

“What, ‘my lady’?”

“Yes.” She huffed. “What do you mean by it?”

He fought the urge to groan. “Nothing,” he said. Had it come out so muddled? “I will stop, then.”

“So I’m not a lady? Can an elf not be a lady, to you?”

He looked back over his shoulder at her, taking a deep breath. “You are a lovely woman,” he said when he had sorted the words, “and worthy of respect and deference. And so you are a lady. But if you’d rather me not call you that, then I can do that.”

Velanna pursed her lips, then looked away. “Call me what you will,” she said.

Nathaniel closed his eyes a moment. “Then I will call you Velanna. It seems safest.”

“Likely. And it’s something I doubt that woman will mind if it gets back to her.”

“Oh, Maker. Not this again.” He twisted at the waist. “That is nobody’s business but mine. Can we not do this?”

“Touchy,” Velanna said with what looked like a faint smirk. “You know, I have never heard of humans courted by sleeping in filth before. Though I suppose the straw did make you look fair-haired and glowing.”

“ _Somebody_  is going to risk waking up with beetles in her bed,” he said, and that drew a startled burst of laughter from her. “Though that might remind you too much of home,” Nathaniel added, and turned back around.

Her laughter died down, and he was surprised to hear a little bit of warmth tinge her voice as she said, “It would.”

 

* * *

 

It was only as he was crossing the yard to the dungeon door, washed and dressed in clothing in place of armor, that he thought that she might notice something  _off_. He remembered quite clearly the time she had told him he smelled foul - and when he had come from Amaranthine, he had been dirty from a day’s travel.

Now he was nicely dressed and bringing food once more. It made him flush and have to clear his throat, hoping that nobody could see, before he shouldered the door open.

He hadn’t even rounded the corner to where she could see him when Cauthrien called out, “Nathaniel?”

“Yes,” he said, “it’s me.” He came to the bars of her cell and settled down without preamble, plate and cup between them. “With a little more time than the other morning, I hope.”

“And a little less hangover on my part,” she said, sitting forward and reaching through the bars. He passed her the water.

Her finger grazed his and for just a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

He pulled back with a stuttering cough and picked up a slice of pickled turnip, focusing on it as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. “That’s- good, yes. Hangovers are no fun.”

“You could always bring water next time,” she said, and something in the cadence of her voice wound itself around his lungs and heart and closed in.

It had to be how Velanna’s comments still hung with him. He certainly hadn’t noticed her lips before, except that they were cracked, or that her eyes- well, he had noticed her eyes were grey. But now as he glanced up again, they seemed to catch the light in new and fascinating ways, and he was staring.

He ate the turnip.

“So was your trip to the Blackmarsh enjoyable?” Cauthrien asked when he said nothing and  took another piece to eat instead.

“Not the word I would pick,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “If… you see what looks to be a walking corpse, don’t panic too much unless it starts howling. We’ve brought yet another new face to the fold.”

Cauthrien frowned, then shook her head and reached for a bit of food herself. “A walking corpse. Your commander certainly does find the most… interesting help.”

“Though that reminds me. On the way there, I had a bit of a chat with her.”

One brow climbed and her lips parted slightly. He smiled awkwardly. “Not… about you. Per se. But- well. It’s a long story. It’s always a long story, I guess. But I talked with her, and with Sigrun-“

“The other dwarf that came to fetch you?” she interrupted.

Nathaniel did nothing but blink for a few moments, and then nodded. “Yes, her. Why?”

Cauthrien shrugged. “She’s stopped by a few times.”

“She- what? Has she?”

“Very briefly.” She sat back and took a long sip of water before settling the cup in her lap. It was a familiar gesture, and Nathaniel couldn’t help the small smile at recognizing it. He knew how to read it.  _Thoughtful._  “Called me a poor sod but wasn’t mean about it. She asked if I’d ever considered writing a book.”

“And what did you tell her?” he asked, sitting forward. A book about Cauthrien’s life… he had heard the story all through, and so recently.

It  _would_  make a good book.

Cauthrien only shook her head with a small laugh. “I told her that it would have to be in Orlesian because my spelling in Trade is horrendous,” she said.

Nathaniel stared. “You… speak Orlesian?”

“Fluently.”

“I had no idea.”

She grinned, a laugh twitching her shoulders. “And why should you have? It’s not something that I’ve ever advertised, and not something I’m particularly proud of. But what were you saying?”

 _Cauthrien_ , speaking Orlesian - what else could she do? Perhaps she hadn’t told him even close to everything. Maybe that was better. It certainly left a lot to be discovered, to be talked about. He found himself sitting closer still, bracing his weight on one hand.

“Ah. Just that Sigrun and I spoke, and I spoke with the Commander, and- the woman has trust issues.”

“Yes.”

“But that once she knows you have her back, she could use the help. She takes help where she can get it. Allies.”

“And so…”

“And so- I don’t know. Perhaps if you spoke to her again- you would work for her, wouldn’t you?”

Cauthrien looked away. “It isn’t particularly high on my list of desires, Nathaniel.”

“She’s a competent leader.”

“She has had me locked in a cage with, if I am  _lucky_ , a bucket to relieve myself in and one meal a day, for almost eight months now, by my last count.” She took a deep breath, standing to stretch. “She may be a fine leader. And her cause is a good one. But I am not about to throw myself on her mercy to become her dog. I chose my last service freely, and I will do so if I ever get the chance to again.”

Nathaniel’s frown deepened and he reached out, settling his hand on the bars. He wanted to protest. He wanted to push, because the more time passed, the more it ached to see her trapped in her cell with barely enough room to pace.

“I’ll find something,” he promised. “If I have to sneak you out of here myself, I’ll find something.”

“And lose your shot at redemption for it?” Cauthrien asked, slowly turning to look at him again.

He nodded.

She closed her eyes and sank down to her knees. “Maker,” she murmured. “What a pair we make, the two of us.”

His huff was half-amused and half-surrendering. “Indeed. Here- you should eat more.”

“More water would be better,” she said. “And some sun. I haven’t felt the sun since they moved me between Denerim and here. Never thought I’d miss it this much.”

“I can do the water. The sun might take a little more work, but I’ll ask around.”

His fingers curled around the metal and he leaned closer, earnest and needing to do _something_. She met his gaze, then held out the cup.

He took it from her, careful not to touch.

“You’re a good man, Nathaniel Howe,” Cauthrien said as he sat back at last. “I’m not sure where I’d be without you.”

“Eating pease porridge,” he suggested, and she smiled broadly enough that it touched her eyes.

“Eating pease porridge.”

 

* * *

 

“Does the Commander know you visit the prison?” Justice asked as Nathaniel passed him on his way to the well.

“Yes,” he said without a glance back. “Most everybody does, I believe.”

“I have heard it mentioned that you are a thief.”

“Were. Failed, too.” He set Cauthrien’s cup on the side of the well and began to turn the crank, still not looking to the corpse. Justice came closer all the same, and if it hadn’t been for the footsteps, the smell would have given him away.

“Why do you go down there?” Justice pressed.

“That is not your business.” Nathaniel glanced over his shoulder, trying not to flinch at how tightly his skin was drawn over bone.

“I do not understand your concept of… prisons. Making one who has performed an injustice sit - what does that accomplish?”

“I don’t know.” He shoved harder on the crank and saw the rope jerk, heard the slosh of water over the side of the bucket. “It’s never made sense to me.”

“And yet you go down there.”

He sighed. “I said to leave it be, Justice.”

“I will not. If it is a liability to the righting of wrongs-“

“It isn’t. I’m visiting a woman, if you have to know. A woman, I might add, who has been  _wrongly_ imprisoned.”

That made him stop speaking, at least. Nathaniel lifted the bucket the last few inches and then leaned over the rim to grab it, pulling it close and setting it on the stone. He dipped Cauthrien’s cup in and drained it before refilling it once more.

“Who is this woman and what is her supposed crime?”

Nathaniel considered just walking away. But what would he say if Justice followed him down into the prison?  _Cauthrien, I’ve brought you a gift?_  He sighed. “It’s a very long story. But she… she isn’t innocent, but it is wrong, what has been done to her.”

“I don’t understand.”

He took a deep breath and turned to face Justice, leaning back against the well. “She made mistakes, some time ago. They resulted in the deaths of lot of people.”

“Then she is guilty.”

“Yes. But she also did what was in her power, at the end, to fix what had been done.”

Justice crossed his arms over his chest. Nathaniel wondered if the very human gesture came from Kristoff’s memories, and then shoved the morbid thought aside. “And did she fix it?”

“In my opinion? Yes. She… I don’t know how to explain it all. But her imprisonment serves no purpose.”

“And I am to believe a thief on this matter?” Justice frowned, a very odd expression with the leathery quality of his skin, the way his muscles didn’t move quite right. Nathaniel thought a silent prayer that he had yet to eat in any quantity. There was not enough in his stomach to roil.

“Or you could just let it drop. It’s my business, and hers.”

Justice considered, his frown staying steady. He seemed to become a statue. There was no breathing to move his chest and shoulders, no fidgeting energy to make him shift his weight. It was unnerving. Nathaniel turned away to begin lowering the bucket once more.

“Is she…” Justice paused, and Nathaniel fell still, hand on the crank.

“She’s a good woman,” he said. “Misled for a time. But she… can you imagine somebody believing in justice, but getting it wrong? Is that a concept for you?”

“No.”

Nathaniel sighed. “Then I suppose I can’t explain it satisfactorily.” He let the bucket fall the rest of the way into the water, picked up the cup, and turned back towards the prison.

“Is that water for her?” Justice asked.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Yes.”

“I will take it to her,” Justice said, coming to stand before him and holding out a hand. “And I will speak with her.”

Nathaniel scowled. “She’s not going to appreciate that.”

“Why not?”

“You’re the walking dead, Justice.” Justice canted his head. Nathaniel sighed. “Just… if you don’t agree with her, leave her alone. She’s been through a lot.”

“This is a mortal sentiment.  _Been through a lot_.”

“Yes, I guess it is.” He had a headache brewing. “I’ll…” He looked to the keep, where food waited for him. “I’ll eat, and then I’ll come and check on you two. Don’t- just don’t hurt her. Don’t get near her. She stays as she is, is that clear?”

“I understand,” Justice said.

Nathaniel passed the cup to him. “And- just sit a bit away from her. You don’t smell particularly nice.” Justice looked down at himself with a small frown, and Nathaniel stepped back. “Alright?”

“Yes.”

He took a deep breath. “Right, then. I’ll see you two soon.” And he turned and walked towards the main hall, hoping he had made the right decision.

 

* * *

 

“Ten silver,” Oghren said with a snigger as Nathaniel walked into the mess.

“I’d rather eat your boots,” Anders responded archly. When the dwarf started to haul his leg up onto the bench, though, he started to laugh. “No, no, I take that back! Ten silver! You’ve got it, ten silver. You dwarves drive hard bargains, you know.”

Oghren grinned, holding his hand out to the mage while he waved a hand to Nathaniel. “And a warm thank you, hehe.”

“What did I do?” Nathaniel asked, sitting down on Anders’ side of the table.

“Only half an hour down with her,” Velanna said from where she sat at the next table over with her legs drawn up under her. She didn’t so much as look up from her journal. “The swine over there had a game going.”

Anders snickered. “Did you hear that? She called you a  _hog_ , Oghren.”

“I meant the both of you.”

“I-!”

Nathaniel shook his head, reaching to fill his plate and cup. The wood of the bench creaked and he glanced over to find Sigrun watching him, leaning on her elbow braced on the table top. “She kick you out, or…?”

“Justice wanted to see her.”

Sigrun winced. “You think that will go well?”

“Oh, what’s the matter - a walking incarnation of  _Justice_  who you say is definitely not a demon, and a bitter war criminal? Nothing could go wrong,” Anders said as he rooted in his belt pouch. From his lap came an annoyed  _meow_ , and Anders murmured, “Shh, Pounce; daddy just made a bet that he would’ve won if not for nasty walking corpses.”

Nathaniel shook his head. “Nothing will go wrong. I explained the situation to him.”

“Are we calling it a  _him_?” Anders asked, looking up and tossing the coin across the table. Oghren shrugged and began gathering it up.

“Has his todger fallen off yet?” Oghren said with a crooked grin.

Nathaniel grimaced and Velanna scoffed from where she sat.

“Don’t know,” Sigrun said with a shrug.

“ _It_  seems a little rude, don’t you think?” Nathaniel said, rubbing at the spot between his eyes. “ _He_  works. We can ask if we need to, I guess.”

“Rather not,” Anders said, breaking off a bit of cheese and offering it to the kitten nesting in his lap. “Oh- did you… you know? Ask?”

“She needs you here,” Nathaniel said, then took a bite of smoked pork.

“Oh.” Anders frowned. “Well, then.”

Across the room, Velanna stirred. Sigrun looked over to her. “Come over and join us?”

Nathaniel waited for her sharp refusal- but then there was the pad of slippered feet on stone, and the creak of the bench further down.

Oghren huffed. “There’s plenty of room over  _here_ , ladies.”

“Perhaps you should consider why that is,” Velanna said, reaching out for a piece of fruit.

Oghren chuckled. “Well, I know it’s  _big_ , but it doesn’t need a whole bench to itself.”

Velanna’s fingers tightened around the fruit and Nathaniel stifled a laugh.

It was the first time he could remember that they were all sitting in the same room, let alone around the same table. He wondered what had changed. Was it Sigrun? Was it  _him_? Or was it all just luck, a wager nobody would have made? He didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure he minded.

If seeking redemption - such as it was - produced companions like this, and like Cauthrien, perhaps, no matter the final outcome, he had already found it.

 

* * *

 

He lingered in the dining hall longer than he had intended. The mood of it all, the awkward, faltering warmth, was something he hadn’t felt since years ago near the beginning of his squiring. Most of those years had been full of hard work, but some of them had held good meals with fellow squires, or even people he simply met on the road.

It reminded him of that, and it was a good feeling.

Then somebody had mentioned Justice and he had frowned and tried to remember the last time the chapel bell had rung, and not too long after he was extracting himself from the bench and making excuses that got him nowhere. Anders made another bet with Oghren, and this time Sigrun joined in. He did his best to ignore the terms.

He thought about bringing more food, but he settled on filching another cup, filling it from the well in the yard before he finally turned towards the prison. Justice was nowhere to be seen, but did it stand that he was still down there? Maybe Cauthrien had dismissed him the moment he appeared. But if they were still talking-

He shook his head and made for the prison, the latch familiar under his hand as it gave.

Voices greeted him.

“I do not see what is gained by leaving you here. You understand your crime. You have done what is in your power to right it.”

“Believe me, I’ve thought about it all.”

“This is an injustice.”

Cauthrien said nothing.

“That she imprisons one such as you is unjust. My short time here already has shown that mortals do not understand justice as I do. As you do.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to-“

“You may name it honor or loyalty, but it is justice you seek and follow. Mortal failings pulled you astray, but you acknowledge this.”

“Stop.”

“Why should I stop? I see no reason. You would hide from the crime perpetrated against you?”

Nathaniel stepped around the corner and into sight. Justice was standing before the bars and Cauthrien was sitting against the far wall, jaw tense and cheeks flushed. “That’s enough, Justice,” he said, and she looked to him pleadingly. He offered a quick smile. “If you want to talk to somebody about this, talk to the Commander.”

“Yes,” Justice said. “That is a good plan.”

Nathaniel winced at that; he wasn’t sure, exactly, how Vanadia would take it, but he didn’t expect it to be favorable. “Leave us alone?”

Justice nodded, sharply, and then strode past him with all the determination of an idea. Nathaniel sighed and sat down, trying to ignore the lingering fetid odor. He held the cup out to her.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

“Did you send him?” She pushed herself up and settled down again leaning against the bars, taking the cup and sipping gratefully.

“In a way.” Nathaniel sighed. “I meant to interrupt sooner. It wasn’t too bad, I hope?”

“Too bad? He only ordered me to tell him everything about ‘my crimes’,” Cauthrien said, glowering. “In detail, with all the ramifications that I knew of. No, it was lovely.”

He flinched. “Stupid question.”

“Very.”

He watched as she ran her other hand through her hair, loose and falling around her shoulders and down to the swell of her chest. She frowned at it as she twisted her hand through the end of it.

“Can I do anything?” he asked. “About- any of it. I could get down on my knees and beg, if it would make things better.”

She looked at him from the corners of her eyes and then chuckled. “Not necessary,” she said, and he shrugged.

“It was worth the offering.”

“Hm.” She exhaled slowly, closing her eyes and leaning her head against the bars once more. “No luck bottling sunshine?”

“None, I’m afraid. And it’s still too early in the evening to stage an effective breakout.”

“Stop it. You know that wouldn’t work.”

“You’re probably right.” He smiled and lowered his gaze. It was a surprisingly comfortable silence, and he picked at the cuffs of his sleeves idly. Her breathing was even, and eventually it slowed to the point where he wondered if she had fallen asleep.

He glanced over once. She looked peaceful, then, and not nearly so harsh or so old. He found himself counting years; she had said she was born two years before the Orlesians were pushed out, and if he counted from the start of the Dragon age-

Thirty-three.

Nathaniel restrained a snort of frustrated laughter. He was barely beyond his twenty-fourth nameday. Yet another reason why his thoughts of infatuation - and even that was going too far - were ridiculous.

He was looking at his hands again and fighting down his sudden blush when she spoke.

“Do you have your knife with you?”

He stiffened. “I… why?”

“My hair,” she said, and he turned his head to find her watching him. “Even tied back I can’t stand it this long. It winds around my throat when I try to sleep.”

“You want me to- cut your hair?”

“You did say  _anything_ ,” she reminded him, and he laughed, unsteadily.

“I did. And I do have my knife. … You trust me enough? I could get sheers, if-“

“Go ahead.” She smiled a moment and then sat up, pulling the leather tie from where she’d wrapped it around her wrist. She pulled back her hair with a few harsh tugs, and then she settled with her back against the bars, the tail positioned between them.

He swallowed.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” she said.

He took another deep breath before even taking his knife from where it hung on his belt. He turned to face her, settling carefully on his knees. Just a few hours ago their fingers had brushed and he’d lost all balance for a moment.

And now she trusted him enough to ask him to cut her hair.

“How short?” he asked, and hoped his voice didn’t waver as much as he thought it did.

“However is easiest,” she said, without moving to look back at him.

“Right.”

He considered. It would be easiest, he supposed, to cut it short. He wouldn’t have to pull so much to get it taut. But the thought of touching her hair at all made his stomach twist and curl and he tilted his head up.

 _Maker give him strength_ , but he was falling to pieces over a girl.

Woman.

Thirty-three years old.

 _Damn it_.

If this was where the path to redemption led-

But it had nothing to do with redemption. He looked at the set of her shoulders and the way her fingers curled around the cell bars, and all he thought about was  _her_. Pride and strength and dignity and pain- and he thought about what it must be like, to carry it all, to no doubt dream of it all, and to wake with the feeling of a noose around her throat.

He took one last, steadying breath, and then he reached out and curled his left hand around her ponytail, pulling it down and out by increments.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Do it.”

He lifted his blade, and he cut.

Her hair was thin and fine, silky and curling at the ends, and it parted at the edge of his knife with a soft rasping sound. It took several passes, and with each one he watched for her flinch, or for any movement at all. But she was still and steady and only sighed when he made the final pass. She sat forward, and he was left with only a handful of hair.

He looked down, uncertain of what to do with it all.

Cauthrien turned, reaching up and tugging out the tie. Her hair fell to just below her ears, baring her neck to him. She looked lighter, and as she ran her hands through it, he watched, transfixed. She closed her eyes with a faint smile, and his only movement was to sheathe his blade.

“Better?” he asked, voice rasping.

She opened her eyes, smile growing wider and warmer. “Better. Thank you.”

He was probably red down to the collar of his shirt, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away. He could make himself stand, however, and gesture awkwardly with his handful of hair. “I-“

“Throw it out in the yard, I suppose,” she said, nodding to it.

“I- yes. Yes, that’s…”

“Nathaniel?” She frowned and canted her head, and he at last looked away.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said. “It’s been- it’s been a long few days.”

“Of course,” she said, though her tone was less than certain. He found a flicker of a smile and looked back to her.

“Hopefully you’ll sleep better,” he said.

She nodded, then pushed a wayward lock back behind her ear. “Yes. Hopefully. You’re not offering to stay down in the hay again?”

He shook his head. “Not tonight. I ended up on my back in a swamp one too many times. I think I’ll take a bed.”

“Lucky man,” she said, and he felt a renewed flush beneath his skin, this time of shame. “Go on,” she added, and her voice was- kind. Warm. “Just promise to come by tomorrow. Preferably without your undead friend.”

“I promise,” he said, and he nodded one last time. And then he escaped, cool air breaking over him and letting him breathe again. He left the hank of her hair in the midden, but as he shed his shirt in the privacy of his small room, he found two strands caught on his cuff.


	9. Chapter 9

He returned to her again the next day. The keep was buzzing with activity, but he stepped around all of it, save for the letter from Delilah saying that she and Albert had gone off to Denerim for a month or two. Nathaniel couldn’t fault them, and once he had checked with Mistress Woolsey that the road they had taken still appeared to be safe (and had been doubly reassured by Garavel’s insistence), he actually felt rather relieved. It was better than worrying about her half a day’s ride away in such troubled times, and he had heard that the capital was nice this time of year.

Over breakfast, Vanadia sat with Oghren, a toy horse on the table before them. He had done his best not to eavesdrop. And as he descended the steps out into the main yard, he caught sight of Justice being approached by a woman- who then began to backpedal swiftly.

He looked away.

Samuel caught him before he could reach the prison door, asking after his health and Delilah’s. He fought the urge to rock onto the balls of his feet as the conversation dragged on. Behind Samuel, he caught glimpses of the Commander speaking with Justice, and then the two heading for the stables, Sigrun emerging from the higher walls to join them. By the time Samuel excused himself, the three had left the keep.

He shook his head, relieved that Vana hadn’t pulled him along with them. Balancing the now-cold offering of food in his hand, he pulled open the prison door.

The sound of panting, pained breath caught him, and he shoved the plate aside onto a nearby barrel.

“Cauthrien?” he called, rounding the corner with his heart in his throat.

He was met by the sight of her looking back at him from where she had suspended herself, a few inches above the ground, with her arms wrapped around the bars. She lowered herself gently. “Good morning,” she said.

Nathaniel’s cheeks burned and he tried to stuff down the feeling of embarrassment. “I.. yes. Hello. I thought-“

She quirked a brow.

“… Never mind,” he said. “Let me grab your food. Do you- did they bring you water yet?”

“They did. As did Justice, shortly thereafter.”

“He came by again?” Nathaniel asked, frowning as he retrieved the plate and brought it to her. “He didn’t tell me.”

“Briefly. Just for the water, and to encourage me to keep up my strength. He’s… a good sort, after a fashion.” She shrugged and settled down cross-legged.

“Oh. Hence the…” he gestured to the bars. She nodded.

“It’s pathetic, what I can still do,” she said, reaching out to take the half-loaf of bread he’d brought her. “When I was still in Drakon, I did what I could to keep up my exercises. I fell off when I came here. The lack of light, the uncertainty of it all… when you’re sure you’ve been left to rot, it all stops seeming as important.” She took a bite, then rolled her shoulders and flexed her arms and fingers, shaking her head. Once she had swallowed, she looked to him. “I’m probably half the size I was, between the lack of any sort of food and how… sedentary I’ve been.”

“You’re in prison,” he said, and tried not to think about her with broader shoulders, stronger legs.

“True,” she conceded, and took another bite.

Was it odd, watching her eat? Maybe he should have held off on eating, so that he could join her. As it was, he found himself watching the flex of her jaw, easy to see now with her shorn hair.

Maker, he’d cut her hair for her the night before.

He cleared his throat. “Do you- mind if I bring something to work on?” He was sure some of his armor fastenings needed mending, and he could always pick up arrows to be fletched. He had lost more than he had planned on in the Blackmarsh. “I have the day, but I’m not sure you’d want me staring at you the whole time.”

“And you do appear well-rested, so a hay nap isn’t in order,” she said with a laugh. “Go ahead.”

 

* * *

 

He spent the next four days sitting with her, leaving only to check on what went on in the keep and to sleep. Sergeant Maverlies was kind enough to bring their meals, and while Cauthrien ate or worked strength back into her limbs, he sat with a stack of arrow shafts and a little pot of wax and resin with a candle burning beneath it, trimming feathers and attaching them carefully. It took a steady hand and some peace of mind, and it was gratifying to know he could still manage it.

They talked of idle things - the quality of the food, the weather outside when he marked it. He told her about Kal’Hirol and the Blackmarsh, leaving out the pieces that he doubted Vanadia would appreciate being spread. She told him about life in the barracks, and he gave her in turn stories of his life as a squire. He told her about Kirkwall, and she told him about the farm she had grown up on.

He wanted to offer to take her there - it was not more than a few days’ ride southwest. But he kept the thought to himself, focusing instead on his work.

It grew harder to ignore that he enjoyed sitting with her, and that he enjoyed talking with her, and enjoyed looking at her. He felt flustered when Vana’s party returned from the city and Justice came by with an offering of a cup of water, to find Nathaniel sitting away from his work and against the cell bars. He had been listening to the story of King Cailan’s coronation - the revelry, the underlying note of mourning that lingered, the King’s drunken order to find him a dragon and fight it, as a knight should. Cauthrien sat nearby, leaning against the bars a little further down, her feet by his hips. They could have been touching, and the arrow he held in his lap sat idle, his fingers wound with thread but unmoving.

And then the smell had preceded him and Justice had greeted them both with, “I have brought water,” and then a more questioning, “Has Warden Nathaniel discharged that duty already?”

Nathaniel had been glad his back was to the spirit.

“Yes, and food,” he said.

Cauthrien nodded. “Thank you, Justice.”

“Good,” Justice said. “Do you require anything more?”

“No,” Cauthrien said. “You don’t need to worry.”

“I spoke with the Commander,” Justice said, and Cauthrien held up a hand.

“Unless she’s about to walk in with the key, I don’t want to know.”

Justice fell silent, and Nathaniel finally twisted around to look up at him. He looked thoughtful- confused. “I… see,” he said at last. “I think I might understand.”

“You probably do,” Cauthrien said, and Justice nodded.

“Very well,” he said. “I will return tomorrow.”

And he did, of course. He stopped in, with water, and with the desire to talk to Cauthrien, and again Cauthrien waved him away. She told Nathaniel later that it was a little overwhelming, having a spirit of Justice take her side. The judgment he had passed on her at first had been easier; his belief in her goodness was much more uncomfortable. Nathaniel couldn’t argue.

Sigrun came by as well, once, to bring Cauthrien a book. It was in Orlesian.

Cauthrien shut it after five pages (once Sigrun was safely gone), cheeks pink.

“It’s, ah,” she said when he questioned her, “not… the sort of book I usually have an interest in.”

He took it back to the library for her later that night, and stole a glimpse. His Orlesian was rusty, learned years ago and not used since, but even he knew what  _une femme d’une grande passion_ would lead to. He flushed and shelved the book, and tried not to think of what Cauthrien would sound like reading it aloud.

On the third day he came in from taking another bundle of fletched arrows to the keep fletchers to find Justice standing by Cauthrien’s cell again. They were speaking in low voices, and Cauthrien was shaking her head.

“It was a mortal failing,” Justice said. “I… feel I may understand its provenance. This body, the man who it once was, he loved a woman. Very… deeply. The other day, I met this woman. It brought back some echo of that longing.”

“It wasn’t love, Justice,” Cauthrien said, sighing and running a hand through her hair. Nathaniel recognized it as a nervous gesture, and uncertain one. He opened his mouth to speak, but found his lungs wouldn’t cooperate to form sound, let alone words.

It was an intimate moment, an intimate question. He was intruding. Where words didn’t come, his feet also didn’t move. And so he watched from the shadows, barely able to see her.

“What you have described, it sounds similar. I do not see the difference.”

“Idolization and love are very different,” Cauthrien said, and Nathaniel’s pulse quickened.  _Loghain_. They were talking about Loghain. She hadn’t told him about Loghain, not in any depth, except to dispel the rumors that she had ever been his lover and to stress her loyalty to him, and where it had led.

“But you have said that this man respected you, as you did him.”

“It was hardly as equal as you make it sound, Justice.” Cauthrien folded her arms around herself. “I… when I was younger, when I was more lost in him, I called it love, if only to myself. But love… no, it never was. What we had- I believed in him. You believe in the concept of justice with all that you are, right? That’s what makes you up?”

“Something… like that, yes,” Justice said, frowning.

“And I believed in him. I followed him to protect Ferelden, and he-  _became_ Ferelden.”

“He became a piece of land?”

She shook her head, gaze growing distant. “He became home. And I suppose you can love a home, do anything to protect a home, but that’s not the type of love you’re talking about, Justice.”

“Have you felt the sort I speak of?”

Cauthrien looked up to Justice then, and shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’ve never had the option, or sought it out.”

“This is… a shame. From this body’s memories, I feel that it is something worthwhile. Something beautiful.”

“It’s supposed to be, yes,” she said, with a little smile.

“And Warden Nathaniel?” Justice asked, and Nathaniel waited for his vision to swim from the stilling of his heart. He stared, holding his breath.

Cauthrien flushed, smile twitching and then failing. “What about him?”

“He visits you often. The guards say that he sits with you often. You trust him.”

She swallowed and turned away. “He is an ally.”

“Is that the correct word?”

Cauthrien’s shoulders rose with her slow inhale. “It’s a word,” she said at last. “It’s mostly correct.”

“I don’t understand,” Justice said, and Cauthrien laughed, rough and uneven.

“You don’t have to.” She looked to him. “… Can I have some time alone?”

“Of course.”

Nathaniel shook himself, and slunk back to the door, slipping out of it. The cold air outside was bracing and he sucked in great breaths of air. He’d expected her to laugh it off, to wave it off, and instead, she-

She-

“Warden Nathaniel,” Justice said, and Nathaniel startled. “… Are you well?”

“What? Yes,” he said, turning. “Just thinking.”

Justice watched him passively, then nodded. “Have you spoken with the Commander of late?”

“No. Why?”

“Nothing has happened.” Justice frowned. “We should be hunting the darkspawn, and yet we remain here.”

“She’s Arlessa,” Nathaniel said. “It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s handling paperwork. And there are the ongoing repairs to the walls.” He pointed towards the outer ring of stone. “We’ve barely had more than a week together to breathe and regroup.”

“The countryside suffers while we ‘breathe’,” Justice said, his frown not lessening.

Nathaniel sighed, pinching at the bridge of his nose and using the motion to hide his continuing blush. “Raise the issue with her, then. I have arrows to fletch.”

“Do you visit her out of penance?” Justice asked, and Nathaniel muttered a curse.

“Could you fixate a little less on us, perhaps?” he snapped.

Justice canted his head. “I did not mean to offend.”

“It’s not…” He sighed. “I’m not offended. Just- yes, and no, and maybe. Does that answer please you?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think it would,” Nathaniel said, shaking his head and moving to the prison door. “Good day, Justice.”

He didn’t wait for a response.

 

* * *

 

He wasn’t entirely convinced that Cauthrien hadn’t noticed him. At the very least, the conversation left both of them awkward and less prone to speaking while he sat across from her. The tips of his fingers were pink from the draw of thread across them and the touches of hot wax, and he likely should have taken a break. But he didn’t.

She was the one to break the silence. She had just finished a round of holding herself up against the bars (which he had studiously ignored, because the last time he had watched he had caught a glimpse of her waist and the flare of her hips), and sat back against the far wall now, one knee drawn up to her chest. She didn’t look at him as she spoke.

“I don’t think about him as often as I thought I would,” she said.

He stilled. “Who?” he asked. “My father?”

“Loghain,” she said, and he looked up. “If you’d told me a year ago that I could go a year sitting with nothing to do for weeks on end without thinking about him more than once a day… I would have agreed, but I wouldn’t have believed it.”

“It was during a war. Of course you thought about him often then,” he said, and she snorted.

“Thank you, but you know it was more than that.” She laced her fingers together against her knee. “… I just never thought I would move on so easily.”

“I wouldn’t call this  _easy_ ,” he said, rubbing his fingertips together a moment to massage the feeling back into them. “And I’m not sure I’d call it moving on, either. I think surprisingly little of my father nowadays. In both senses of the word.”

Cauthrien smirked a moment, then leaned her head back and looked up at where the bars met the ceiling. “I suppose you’re right. Still… he was such a large part of my life for so long. And now he’s- gone. And that’s it.”

He nodded, setting down the arrow he was working on. His mouth felt dry already; she didn’t speak to him like this, not about Loghain. And yet as he settled back, he knew what he  _wanted_  to say, how he wanted to respond.

Nathaniel met her eyes.

“Do you think you loved him?” he asked.

She didn’t sigh or turn away like she had from Justice. Her gaze dropped a moment, then returned to him. He watched as her tongue peeked out from between her lips to wet them as she considered her answer.

“Not in any healthy way,” she said at last.

Nathaniel nodded.

“And what about you?” she asked.

His smile came unbidden, nervous and a little exhilarated, and he looked down. “I take it,” he said, “that you’re not asking about my filial love for my father.”

“No.”

“… I didn’t spent my time in the Marches chasing skirts, if that’s your real question.”

“Something like it.”

He swore he could hear her breathing, and when he glanced up again she was watching him with a nervousness, a cautiousness, that almost read as shy.  _Allies_ , he thought with a stuttering breath.

That was mostly correct.

She was lovely, he admitted to himself. Lovelier than the stories had made her out to be. Her skin was flushed with exertion and maybe, hopefully, with warmth. Her eyes were alight. She was a far cry from the wasted woman he had met the first time the torch had been lit.

And she knew him. She-

There was a sharp knock at the door. It opened in another breath, the sound of shouted orders crashing down into the small room. With it came Sigrun, half in her kit of armor.

“Darkspawn mass outside of the city,” she gasped. “The Commander needs you.”

“Amaranthine?” Nathaniel was on his feet, and Cauthrien with him. “Of course. I’ll-” He looked to Cauthrien, and she nodded. “I’m with you,” he said, and then he followed Sigrun out the door, leaving half a dozen arrows behind him.

The yard was chaos, men preparing, not to  _be prepared_ , as they had for weeks, but to fight. The Vigil’s army, small though it was, assembled in ranks. He followed Sigrun around it all, heart in his throat and in his gut simultaneously. He had seen the state of the city - it would fall. It could fall before they even reached it, and certainly before an army could.

They entered the audience hall to a scene of near chaos, nobles who had been called to discuss defenses filling the hall with a roar of protests, complaints, fears. Vanadia stood at the head of it all and it was to her side that Sigrun led him.

Vanadia looked him over with a calmness he couldn’t comprehend.

“Commander,” he greeted with a bow, and she waved a hand.

“Nathaniel,” she said, then glanced out at the sea of bodies. “… I leave to protect Amaranthine as soon as the horses are readied.”

“Of course,” he said, nodding sharply. “I will get my bow-“

“And you will remain here.”

The weight of his heart grew tenfold. “I- Excuse me?” Stay here? Delilah was safe towards Denerim, but the rest of the city, the rest of the  _fight_ -

“You have been with me through Kal’Hirol and the Blackmarsh, Nathaniel. You have seen how wily these new darkspawn are.” Vanadia sighed. “Do you believe their whole force crashes against the city?”

Nathaniel shook his head. “I-“

“I need good men here to defend the keep.” She stepped close enough to clasp him on the shoulder, a touch that made him jump, made his foot tap anxiously against the ground.

“And what of Oghren and Anders?” he asked. “Are they no longer up to the task?”

Vanadia looked back to the door, and he followed her gaze. A stablehand waited there, breathless, palms pressed to his thighs. “You will remain here and protect your home. I need your eyes and your sense  _here_  more than I need them in a burning city.” She smiled grimly. “I am leaving Anders with you, as well as Justice. Sigrun, Velanna, and Oghren go with me. I expect to find this fort still standing when I return, is that clear?”

He inhaled shakily. “Yes.”

“Good,” she said. “Because you’re in charge until I return. Make yourself ready.” Her expression flattened, growing more solemn as she turned back to him. “And may the Ancestors watch over you.”

“Maker keep you,” he said, ducking his head and swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“… And make sure Ser Cauthrien survives,” Vanadia added. “Though I doubt I need to ask that.”

“I- of course. Commander.”

“Good man, Howe.” She flashed a wicked, cruel grin, and then she let go of him, shouting to her team to follow her. Five guards followed. Nathaniel remained on the dais, staring after her and trying to remember how to breathe and how to move.

 

* * *

 

She left him, he realized as he went over the numbers, with less than half the garrison, walls still a good week and a half from being completed, and a dwarf with a very happy trigger finger and a lot of very powerful explosives.

“No, Dworkin,” Nathaniel said, crossing his arms. “We can’t lay the trip wires yet. It’s too dangerous. With your brother still working on the outer walls-“

“Sod ‘im! He’s taken long enough, he should be done by now.”

“Well, he’s not, and we have a lot of men assisting. What’s the minimum amount of time you need to do your work?” He had a grand headache brewing, and he hadn’t managed to get down to see Cauthrien again. It didn’t help his anxiety at a potentially approaching enemy to know that the person he cared about most in the whole keep likely knew nothing of what was going on, save that there was an attack  _somewhere_  on the horizon, against some location.

“Do it, or do it well?” Dworkin asked, and Nathaniel threw up his hands.

“Both. Either.  _Do it_.”

“Half a day minimum.”

“Well, then,” Nathaniel said, “unless the darkspawn have learned to ride _horses_  you will have enough time between when the scouts alert us to when they reach the walls. It will have to do. And,” he added, “you had best plant those explosives far enough away that they don’t undo everything your brother has done to buy us time.”

“I’m not stupid, Warden,” Dworkin huffed, and then he shook his head. “Bloody humans, don’t know a  _thing_  about defense.”

“We do know a great deal about  _making due_ , though. Do what you can short of digging the trenches.”

Dworkin waved a hand dismissively as he turned.

Nathaniel sat back on what had once been his father’s chair, closing his eyes and trying to ignore memories of sitting in it as a boy. He was no Arl. And he was no head of his father’s garrison. He felt like a joke - a very stressed, angry _joke_.

“Warden Nathaniel-“

“Yes, Justice?” he snapped.

“I have a suggestion,” he said. Nathaniel opened his eyes to find him standing to his left, head bowed. When he spoke again, his voice was pitched more quietly, as if to avoid detection by anybody else.

He certainly learned quickly.

“It would be best for all involved if you released Ser Cauthrien from her cell and requisitioned her aid against the potential attack.”

Nathaniel stiffened. “I can’t do that, Justice.”

“Explain,” Justice said, brow furrowing. His eyes seemed to glow from within. “It is an option that will save lives and harm none.”

“The Commander didn’t give me leave to do it,” Nathaniel said. “And what if she runs? What if she gets  _killed_? And I can’t imagine anybody here would enjoy taking orders from her.”

“She is a noble woman who has done penance for her crimes, and she is just as likely to die where she cannot defend herself as she is helping,” Justice said, the even cadence and inflection in his voice making Nathaniel’s jaw clench against it.

“You certainly do think the world of her,” he said.

Justice simply stared, and slowly Nathaniel realized that he didn’t blink. Of course he didn’t blink. It wasn’t something he could mine from a man’s memories.

And then Justice looked down at his hands and frowned. “… I believe she reminds me of myself. Or of other spirits. She is not as muddled as the rest of you humans are. She has a clear sense of purpose and of honor.”

Nathaniel could almost hear Anders’ voice in his head, singing,  _does Justice have a crush_?

He grit his teeth.

“Trust me, she’s quite muddled, and quite human. And so is everybody else here. I don’t know if she would be safe-“

“She is capable of protecting herself,” Justice said, and Nathaniel thumped his head back against the chair.

“… Fine. Fine, I’ll let her out if she wants it.” He ran a hand over his face and tried not to think about what it would be like, to sit  _next_  to her instead of near her, to see her walking by, to… to not know where she was at all times. He took a deep breath.

Justice was right. Her help would be invaluable. Captain Garavel had left with Vanadia to the city, leaving him without a leader for his men beyond himself and Justice. She knew more about commanding armies than he could imagine. If he had to hide her somewhere beyond her prison cell and only relay her words to keep order, he would do that.

“I’ll get her,” Nathaniel said, and pushed himself up. “I need you to check on how Wade is doing.”

“Of course,” Justice said, and with a sharp nod the walking corpse turned and left.

Nathaniel took a deep breath to still himself, and then he waved Varel over. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes,” he said. “I need you to have somebody clean up one of the guest rooms - I need fresh sets of clothing to fit somebody of about my height. Shoes, too. And let the armory know that I’ll be bringing somebody by.”

Varel frowned, and for a moment Nathaniel expected an objection. But then he nodded, and Nathaniel clasped the man on the shoulder.

“And,” he added, “I need the keys to the prison.”


	10. Chapter 10

“What’s going on out there?” Cauthrien asked as soon as the door had closed behind him. He rounded the corner to see her already frowning, but it deepened to confusion as he went straight to the door of the cell. “Nathaniel-“

“I’m in charge of the keep until further notice,” he said, fitting the key in the lock and looking up to meet her questioning gaze. She was close, one hand curling around a bar. “We may be under siege soon. And I need your help.”

It was the easiest way to put it.

He watched her turn over the idea, his hand tense and trembling on the key. Her gaze lost focus and her throat bobbed.

“… Does the Warden know about this?” she asked at last.

“No,” he said. “This was Justice’s idea. I cleared it with Varel. A room is being outfitted for you now.”

“I don’t even know if I can fight-“

“I need you to tell me how to lead men,” he said, and turned the key half-way, leaning his weight on it and ducking his head to catch her gaze as it dropped. “And I need to know that if you need to, you can run. We were lucky last time, that only one of the darkspawn found us. If we’re overrun again…”

He trailed off. Cauthrien’s fingers twitched on the metal, then tightened around it. She nodded.

He turned the key.

The latch hadn’t seemed so loud when it was the guard who unlocked his cage and dragged him out on aching feet. Now it was only surpassed by how his heart thundered in his ears. His lips twitched into a small smile, and then he stepped back.

He watched, not moving, not breathing, as she took her first step out of the cell. Her feet were bare and blackened with dirt. The floor was no different inside than out, and yet she moved cautiously and he watched as if she would meet with trouble. He held his breath.

She took a second step, hand leaving the metal bar, and then she looked at him.

Nathaniel nodded to her, and she nodded in turn. She looked to the hall that would lead to the door. “… What do you need of me first?”

Her voice washed over him and he let go of the door, sliding the key from the lock and folding it back against his palm. “Can you take the time to wash up? Be fitted for armor? Rest, even.”

“Can we talk as we walk?” she asked, and he nodded. “Then I think I can do that. Lead on, Commander.”

 

* * *

 

Three hours after he left her at the door to her room, she entered the audience hall, washed and dressed and quite determinedly not asleep. She had no sword hanging from her belt, to keep the nobles who remained satisfied, but he could still see the ripple that went through the lingering crowd as she passed through it. From where he sat, Nathaniel couldn’t quite restrain his smile, though it turned lopsided as she approached.

“Commander,” she greeted him. He waved it away.

“I thought I said to get some rest,” he said.

“The bed was too soft,” she replied with a shrug and a quirk of her lips.

She was thin and still a little pale and ashen, but the way she stood spoke of long years of training and long years of pride. He had a feeling that  _this_  was the closest to the old Ser Cauthrien he had ever seen her.

“I’m not sure I can do anything about that,” he said with an amused shake of his head, “except to offer you the floor, which I’m sure you’ve already thought of.”

“I’ll try it again later.”

It was so strange, seeing her  _there_ , before him. It was strange without bars between them, and strange with a different backdrop. It was strange- and exhilarating. She seemed to feel it too. Despite the tension in the air she was quick to offer little smiles that were more than cynical twitches _._

She glanced over her shoulder to the nobles, then back to him. “What do you need me to do?”

He pursed his lips, sitting back. “Have you fought darkspawn before?”

“I was allowed to fight at the Battle of Denerim, yes,” she said, “though I only had command of a small team in a relatively secure location.”

“If I walked you through what I’ve learned about them, could you go over how I have the defenses set up, and see if you could improve them?”

“Of course.” Her gaze strayed back to the nobles. “… You realize,” she said, “it would be best to send them towards Denerim, if the threat is not too great, or to put them under house arrest? Here, they’ll just get under foot.”

“I’m sure they’ll be delighted to hear that,” Nathaniel said, shaking his head. “Except that my father’s sympathizers have all been killed. Funny - I hadn’t noticed any of that going on.”

“Probably for the best. What will you do?”

He shrugged. “Advise them to leave for Denerim, and renew the offer of protection should they need it. Some have brought their household guard, and we can use all the soldiers we can get. I don’t want to give orders to them - it will only bring up problems about my father, or encourage sedition against Vana, I’m sure.”

She nodded. “Probably the right decision,” she said.

There was the rattling sound of a man approaching in full armor, and Cauthrien turned and Nathaniel looked around her to watch Justice’s approach. He stopped several paces from Cauthrien and bowed.

“It is good to see you well, Cauthrien,” he said. Nathaniel pushed himself up from his chair and came to join her.

“Justice,” he said. “Is there anything to report?”

“A scout has returned.”

His blood turned to pricking shards of ice in his veins. “And?”

“Nothing certain. There has been movement, but the scout said the force did not move towards the Vigil. However, it also does not move towards Amaranthine City.” He turned to Cauthrien as he spoke, and Nathaniel frowned.

That was-

“Cauthrien, you have more experience in these matters than I. In the Fade there are occasionally little wars acted out from the dreams of mortals, but I do not know how to interpret signs of the real event.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “Have we received word from the city at all?”

“None.” Nathaniel shook his head. “They’ll have only just arrived. Unless they met with trouble on the road, a messenger won’t come for another five or six hours at least, likely more.”

Cauthrien nodded, the movement restrained and thoughtful. “But we know that darkspawn marched on the city?”

“I’ve looked over the original report,” Nathaniel said. “They’ve been fighting off an encroachment for two days at least.”

“And we only just received word?”

Justice frowned. “That is not so long after I left the city. Curious- I could feel none when we were there. Cauthrien-“

Nathaniel stepped forward. “Cauthrien is here to advise, not to give orders,” he said.

Justice looked at him impassively. “She is more qualified than you. She is also a better… person.” Cauthrien sputtered and Nathaniel clenched his jaw. “That is to say, she has done penance for her crimes. You-“

“I am not a thief,” he said, sharply. “I was caught trying to retrieve my family’s things, wrongfully taken from my family. And I would argue that I have done my penance, in darkspawn killed and service rendered, as well as intention. I am acting commander of this fort, Justice.”

Cauthrien nodded before Justice could respond. “Nathaniel is correct. My _advice_ ,” she said, looking between the two, “would be to double the number of scouts; that way, if the horde overtakes one, another is more likely to see and come back to us. And I would also continue to assume that the horde plans to attack us here. I don’t know the situation, but I do know that it is unwise to underestimate the ‘spawn. We thought they marched on Redcliffe, during the Blight - by the time the army returned to Denerim, the city was burning and in shambles.”

“Will you be able to fight?” Justice asked. “If they come?”

She hesitated, and then shook her head. “No. I would not count on it. I haven’t held a sword in eight months.”

“Then I will defend you, should it come to that.”

Nathaniel grit his teeth but said nothing.

“Not necessary,” Cauthrien said. “The fort should be kept before any one person. To defend one person only is a path to ruin.”

Justice nodded, slowly. “You have explained this, yes. I- apologize.”

“No offense taken.” She sighed and looked to Nathaniel. “Commander, do you still want to go over darkspawn tactics…?”

“Yes,” he said, and motioned for her to precede him out of the hall. “Let’s move some place more quiet. Justice-“

“Armoring, yes. Master Wade says that he has done all that he can.”

“Then go up to the ramparts and make sure that all the arching points have full stocks of arrows. And find Anders, wherever the blasted mage has gone off to.”

Justice nodded, and Nathaniel left the hall at a clip, Cauthrien’s long legs the only reason she could keep up.

 

* * *

 

It hadn’t rained in a week, not since the night he had returned raging from the city with the truth of his father’s life dragging him down into the mud. He hadn’t thought of it, but the next day after Vanadia had left, as the sun began to set, he decided that he would have preferred a deluge.

They could hear the march of feet across the dry ground, a darkspawn army that seemed far too strong to withstand, there just over a rise. The mass couldn’t be seen, not yet, but he could hear them. He could hear the steady march. There was a drum beat of sorts.

Darkspawn,  _marching_.

Beneath the outermost walls, Dworkin’s team worked to dig the trenches and lay the explosives. They had started far from the main gate and now worked their way back. He watched them. They would have enough time to finish the job - he hoped. But there was always the chance of something going wrong. There was always the worry that the gate plugging the entrance to the Deep Roads would fail, and darkspawn would boil up from beneath the ground. There was always the fear that even if everything went as planned, they would still lose.

He thought of Cauthrien, dragged off by darkspawn to be made into a broodmother, and then he banished it.

They had worked side by side the entire last day, breaking only for sleep with the worry that they would be too exhausted to fight the coming day. She was a brilliant tactician and she understood anxiety and nerves and the way soldiers acted under pressure. She caught a riot before it began, separating the guards of two nobles and having ale distributed. Just enough, she said, to settle them, but not enough to rile them again.

If he could have given her anything, it was more time and more bodies. As things stood, he simply thanked the Maker that he had listened to Justice and brought her to his aid. He wasn’t sure they would have survived without her alterations, her plans. He wasn’t sure they would survive now, either. But if the day could be won, it would be at her direction.

He wished he could give her more time. He wished, too, that he could give _them_  more time. He had no room for the anxious fluttering in his chest when she came too close or when she sat by his side. He had no room to notice how her entire face lit up when she spoke of tactics or when she gave orders.

It had been a nerve-wracking decision, letting her give orders directly. There had been murmuring. There had been low complaints. But she had the charisma and the mythos to back it up.

She was a lot like Vanadia, except that she was also a local woman, through and through.

Now he turned to her. “Are you sure you don’t want to leave? Or take the offer of being tucked away somewhere safe?”

“Safe is an odd concept right now,” she said. She was dressed in armor, though it was a chain tunic in place of any heavy plate. The sword she carried at her hip was a short blade, nothing like the zweihander she had told him she was more used to. Modifications to fit her current state - and though they looked more truly her than a coarse-spun shirt and loose pants, even he could tell they weren’t quite right.

“I suppose it is,” he said, looking away once more to the field. He could have sworn that the thudding was growing louder, though only minutes had passed at most. Nothing was visible yet.

Nathaniel nearly jumped when her hand settled on his shoulder. Her voice was pitched low when she leaned in. He looked to her, at the band she wore around her head to keep her short and waving hair back. He had shaped her - brought her to be in this place, in this moment. But she had walked there and lived it. He swallowed.

Her smile was small and sad. “Don’t you dare try to protect me,” she said.

He let out a huff of unsteady laughter. “I could ask the same of you.”

Her hand tightened on his shoulder, and for a moment he imagined her leaning in, perhaps pressing her forehead to his, perhaps kissing him. She did neither. She nodded, gave another squeeze of her hand, and then retreated. “I’d prefer it,” she said, “if you didn’t die. Even better if neither of us did. But the most important thing-“

“Is this keep,” he said, “and the people in it. I know.”

Her smile turned grim and she nodded.

“I only wish,” he said, “we had some good Amaranthine whiskey up here. We could raise a toast or pour libations.”

“What would you toast to?” she asked.

“Redemption.”


	11. Chapter 11

The darkspawn reached the first line of explosives one bell after dusk.

He was with Anders, in the rooms that they had made into the infirmary with, going over the supplies they had one last time. Lyrium vials were packed into open-topped crates next to bandages and endless jars of poultice. Ambassador Cera worked nearby, setting out lines of enchanted tools - fine knives, forceps, other things he didn’t know the name or use of. The chapel bell had just stilled when the first rumbling came, the cracking, the creaking, and finally the roar.

Anders grimaced. “That had better have been one of  _ours_ ,” he said.

“Let’s hope,” Nathaniel said, looking to the door. He spared a quick glance back to the mage. “You know what to do?”

“Up to the tower when there are lulls, raining fire down beyond the gates. Got you.”

“You have the range for it?”

Anders shrugged. “If not, I take a little walk, right? The walls are made for that.”

“Stay safe. We’ll need you.”

Anders shook his head. “Right. It’s always nice to be  _needed_. I’ve got this, though. Get your girlfriend to start moving her army.”

Nathaniel rolled his eyes and bit back a retort.

The ground shook with another blast.

“ _Please_ let that have been one of ours.”

 

* * *

 

The smell of sulfur and corruption was strong enough to make his nostrils burn. The explosions made his head pound. They came closer and closer together, too discordant and indecent to set up a rhythm. The piles of darkspawn laying dead on the approach to the keep that should have made it worth it, should have given him some relief, offered none.

They were clever.

The first two blasts, according to Maverlies, had taken them by surprise. Ogres had fallen; squads of hurlocks had been reduced to nothing more than ash and blood. But then they had regrouped and retreated, well out of arrow range. And while Dworkin’s team had begun to ready the fresh bombs, the darkspawn had sent out their first runners.

It was a team of genlocks, maybe twenty strong, and they charged up the hill. Nathaniel had arrived as the first volley of arrows had been loosed. Three had fallen. The charge had continued, unbroken, while the rest of the horde lingered out of range.

They had tripped the third line. They had died. And then the next group had gone.

There were only two lines left, now, and Nathaniel watched with growing horror from the gatehouse of the second wall. The tactic successful, their groups came in faster and faster waves. Dworkin had managed to loose two round of bombs, and they had _connected_ -

With only the back end of the horde as it began to march forward.

The slope of the final approach worked against them now. When the darkspawn had crested the ridge leading to the keep and descended into the last valley, they had been in range of the catapults. But they had pushed up from it quickly, and now they drew closer to the walls with every foot forward, the angle making it difficult to recalibrate, to reposition and launch again. He held his breath as Dworkin loosed another round.

It connected. Screams filled the air and Nathaniel sagged forward against the window.

Behind him, Cauthrien said, “Have the archers ready.”

“How many are dead?” he asked, glancing back over his shoulder. “Do we have a rough estimate?”

Cauthrien leaned out the door of the room they were in and barked a question. He watched as her fingers grew white where she clutched the frame. His heart began to sink, his blood to curdle, and he forced himself to remember to breathe.

Her expression was grim when she came back to him. “Less than half. Likely well less than half. They still outnumber us at least five to one, and that’s  _if_  those on the field are the only ones we have to face.”

He swore.

“But,” she said, “only six ogres that we can see remain. It looks as if that initial charge took out the majority of them - they must have been at the front lines, ready to take the gate.”

Nathaniel closed his eyes, nodding and trying to think.  _Six ogres_  were still far too many. Voldrik had assured him the gates would hold, but-

The second to last line exploded, and from where he stood he could hear the rubble falling back to earth, and the pointed lack of howling. Nobody caught in the shrapnel. He counted ten breaths, then looked to Cauthrien.

“Make sure the archers know to make the ogres their priority. I don’t care if the rest bring a battering ram or even a blighted mabari cavalry - a man can fight a hurlock, but he can’t fight a beast that’s fifteen feet tall and charging horns down.”

“Some of them appear to be wearing armor, as well.”

“ _Flames_ ,” he muttered, and ran a hand through his hair. “… What do you advise?”

“Everything you’ve already said.” She returned his gaze with a small shake of her head, then crossed the space between them. “We have prepared all we can. Now we make our stand. Your mage has gone to the front gatehouse-“

“Anders?” Nathaniel scowled, looking to the outer curtain wall. “Damn him, I told him to stay back-“

“And has the guard on the walls prepared to cover his retreat. Justice waits with the first wave, well within the first gate. Varel is keeping the nobles settled. The archers have their arrows, fletched by your hands.” She inclined her head and reached out, settling a hand on his shoulder. “The rest,” she said, “is our wits and our skill and our luck.”

The last line of explosions went, and in the roar he could only focus on Cauthrien. Her touch wasn’t as firm as between soldiers, and fingers twitched lightly. He reached up to cover her hand with his. More intentional than a brush of fingers, more real than a touch to her hair-

And at entirely the wrong moment.

“Thank you,” he said. “And Maker grant us that it will be enough.”

She was the master of grim smiles that could still make his heart skip a beat.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it took the horde six hours to break down the gate. Two ogres fell along countless others. But their emissaries wove unbreaking shields and the mass of the horde kept back just enough, or pressed tight to the walls where it was hard to find them. Anders flagged after two hours, and had to rest.

Nathaniel’s fingers itched to fire into the horde and his mind scratched and buzzed endlessly with their nearness. He kept himself to the second gatehouse instead, watching and sending flags up to signal minute changes in tactics. Cauthrien watched nearby or descended from the wall to check on the morale of the guard.

What she heard was not good. Whispers of fear, curses of walls cutting them off from escape. Morale flagged, and there was little either of them could do to drag it back up, kicking and screaming. Six hours was too long for any to sustain battle - except the darkspawn. In the dark arrows too rarely found their mark and were more often wasted. When the second ogre went down, he called for a ceasefire, afraid that they would lose their ammunition with no more gain. He pulled the archers back until dawn.

And by dawn it was too late.

The first gate was smashed, and with a triumphant roar the first ogre charged in. Justice’s line met it in its path, breaking apart and scattering. Cries went up and Cauthrien ran up from the wall below into the gatehouse proper, rushing to his side and then beyond it to the window, staring out. Her lips moved silently. He sent up flags for the archers and sent a runner to the infirmary.

They stopped the horde before it reached the second, stronger gate, the double-curtain wall that Nathaniel sat atop of and that guarded the keep itself. The first wall had fallen but the keep town it surrounded had been evacuated the day before. Losses were minimal after the initial rush. Bodies littered the roads and blood smeared across the sides of houses, but Justice kept his men together until they could retreat safely in a break in the fighting. The gates slammed shut behind them and were barred.

And then the waiting began again, the waiting with the howling in the yard and the butchering of bodies beneath them. Archers loosed arrows as the sun rose, hazy through the clouds. The beasts fell, one by one, but not enough. Never enough.

By midday the clouds had turned dark and the first roars of thunder began. Rain began to fall, and flaming oil dumped from machicolations in the wall to keep back the beasts from the gate lost any of its effectiveness.

It was replaced by mud.

The darkspawn slackened in the pounding rain, but so did the soldiers of the keep. Arrows began to run low. Anders ran between treating the wounded and trying to rain destruction down on the darkspawn, but it wasn’t  _enough_.

They settled in.

The siege began in truth.

 

* * *

 

“I should be out there,” he said. “I should be  _out there_.”

“And dying?” Cauthrien said, sharply. “Leaving the keep without a commander?”

“It has you,” he said, scowling and staring out at the camp.  _Camp_. They were using the buildings as cover, and they had hung the dead as decoration. They corrupted the place. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

“And what could you do out there?” she asked. “No. There’s no point. We carry on as we have, and we wait this out. Dworkin is making more explosives as we speak - we destroy the houses and the beasts inside.”

“We’ve lost a quarter of our archers already, Cauthrien,” he snapped. “This will not hold.”

“We’ve lost a quarter of them because of darkspawn mages, mages which are now supposedly dead,” she said. “Calm yourself.”

“Calm!”

“Even your father held together better when under attack.”

Every muscle in his body went rigid. “Do not say that,” he hissed.

“Then  _hold_.”

There was a sharp knock on the door, and then footsteps that could only mean _Justice_.

“Is there news from our scouts?” Nathaniel asked, still not turning and barely keeping his tone even.

“None,” Justice said. “They are likely not alive.”

“There should be reinforcements arriving by now,” Nathaniel muttered, looking out past the far wall. Vana should have returned, with either a saved city or a ruin behind her, with the horde camped here.

“Not if they’re at all intelligent,” Cauthrien said, and he finally rounded on her, glowering.

“And why not? Are you saying they should leave us to die?”

“I am saying,” she said, not flinching or looking away, “that approaching an army of darkspawn without fortifications up a rise with only one path, and with no supplies and no way for us to supply them is foolish. They are in a worse position than those besieging us. So if they understand  _survival_  at all, they will stay back. Do not hope for a miracle, Nathaniel.”

Nathaniel bit back a snarl and pressed his hand to his forehead, rubbing at his brow before moving to pinch at the bridge of his nose. He counted breaths again, a new habit that he sometimes felt was the only thing keeping from from flying into a rage.

Cauthrien cleared her throat and then said, “Leave us.”

“Warden Nathaniel-“

“Is under a great deal of stress. Go check on Anders, see if he needs anything, and then check how we’re doing on arrows. If you would.”

There was no verbal reply, but Nathaniel heard him leave. He also heard Cauthrien move - crossing her arms, likely - with the shifting of chain.

“… Can you not bring up my father at a time like this?” he asked, focusing on her again and letting his hand drop. “I have enough to worry about without having to think of him. I have not asked you of  _Ostagar_  these last few days, have I?”

She inclined her head. “No, you haven’t. … I’m sorry.”

He sighed, then scrubbed both his hands over his face. “Please be honest with me - how likely do you think it is that we’ll survive this?”

“I don’t know,” she said, and for a moment he wished for her hand on his shoulder. It didn’t come. “But we must behave as if we will live. Just like when you hunt, you believe you will find your buck.”

He snorted. “Did you hunt much, then? As a girl?”

“No,” she said. “Trapping, actually, though I was never very good at it. I mostly chopped wood, and dodged work by hiding in the barn.”

“You?” he asked, hands falling again. “Shirking?”

“We’re all mortal,” she said with a rough laugh, then waved to the door. “Well. Most of us.”

A smile touched his lips for what seemed like the first time in a lifetime; it made his face ache and it faded quickly. But it eased the breath in his lungs. He could almost ignore the constant sound of movement outside, the stench, the fear in the air. The buzzing softened. It was as good as a touch, and his brows drew up and together in relief.

He didn’t know what he would have done without her

There was a knock at the door, fast and unfamiliar, and Nathaniel tore his gaze from her.

One of the archers on the wall stood there, pale-faced and gasping for breath. “Commander-” he said, then looked between them. “Commander, it’s Captain Garavel.”

“Garavel?” Nathaniel said, scowl back in place as he crossed the room to the man. “Has he returned? With reinforcements? Has-“

“He’s dead, ser,” the archer said, stepping aside from the door. Nathaniel looked between him and the threshold, then strode quickly out onto the wall, grabbing his helm from a hook by the door and sliding it on as he hit the open air. There was a cluster of men behind the crenelations nearby, and he joined them, peering around the edge.

Down below, only ten yards from the gate, was Captain Garavel. No; there was only Captain Garavel’s  _head_.

Skewered on a pike.


	12. Chapter 12

The next morning, they woke to screams.

There had been screaming in the night, too, of course- but as the dawn broke it turned to wailing, to sobbing, and it grew ever louder. Nathaniel was in his room, sitting on the edge of his bed and willing himself to rise after a night of almost no sleep, when he heard it. It filtered in through his window, cracked so that he could gain some hint of what on outside.

It chilled his blood. It sounded plaintive, even from where he sat with walls and walls between them, and it was that sound that drove him to his feet. He tried to block it out as he dressed, and he had almost succeeded when there was a sharp knock on his door.

“Yes?” he called, buckling a strap and pulling it snug.

“Commander, you’re need at the gate.” It was Maverlies’ voice, and Nathaniel closed his eyes, steadying himself.

“Very well.”

“I have sent for Anders, too. Ser… it’s-“

“I’ll see it for myself,” he said, and reached for his grandfather’s bow.

 

* * *

 

They all waited for him, Justice and Anders and Cauthrien, not in the gatehouse but in the yard itself. They stared forward at the gate. He slowed his jog as he approached and as the moaning and sobbing grew louder. He could make out words. Pleas.

He tried not to look.

“What’s the situation?” he asked, looking between them. Anders looked pale and drawn. Cauthrien looked ashen, but her jaw was set firm. Justice looked on in confusion.

“I do not understand,” he said, softly. “Why do such a thing?”

“To make us lower our defenses,” Cauthrien said. She waved a hand and Nathaniel followed the gesture against his wariness. It was hard to make out shapes through the bars and to the other side, but then he saw them- people, several dozen, bowed before the gate. Darkspawn ringed them but kept a distance.

“It’s  _sick_ ,” Anders said, shaking his head. “They must be Garavel’s soldiers. They…”

“What has happened?” Nathaniel said, not looking away.  _Garavel’s soldiers_. Not a whole army, and not reinforcements, presented - alive - to them.

Cauthrien snorted derisively. “Your darkspawn have prepared a ruse, Nathaniel.”

“They’re living people!” Anders said.

“They are prisoners,” she responded, voice flat and controlled, “who have had all manner of tortures inflicted on them and who likely carry the blight in them. We cannot allow them to enter. Even if the darkspawn do not rush the gate, this corruption will kill us from the inside.

Behind him there were footsteps, the telltale sound of armor that was everywhere now, and then Varel’s voice. “What- Maker’s breath, what’s going on? Open the gates!”

Nathaniel held up a hand. “I need a better look.”

“It’s not good, Nathaniel,” Anders said, and Nathaniel could imagine the grimace on his face. “From what I could see, at least half were missing their hands. Some have patterns carved into their faces and chests. Their skin has been  _flayed_. I… I didn’t know the darkspawn did this, leaving them alive. I thought they just- ate people. Hung their bodies up as ornaments. Not…”

“I’ve never heard of this,” he said.

“They did not do this during the Blight,” Cauthrien said.

“Yes, well, the Blight didn’t have  _talking darkspawn_ , either,” Anders scoffed, and then Nathaniel heard the scrape of skin over stubble as he rubbed at his jaw. “Just- you have to let me do something for them. They’re  _suffering_.”

“It would be cruel, to allow this to continue,” Justice said, thoughtfully. “If we open the first grate, they can enter, and we can shut it behind them. If the darkspawn continue to keep their distance-“

“ _Keep their distance_ ,” Cauthrien interrupted. “I wouldn’t count on that. The gate will take too much time to open and close, especially since those people are injured. The darkspawn can surge and overtake before they could even reach us. And lest we forget, they have open wounds festering in a  _darkspawn_  camp.”

“Whatever you choose, Commander,” Varel said, “you should choose quickly. The nobles are becoming… disturbed.”

He groaned. “Lock them in the Maker-forsaken dungeons, Varel. I can’t keep them happy and comfortable during a  _siege_.”

“It’s the screaming, ser.”

“Yes, I noticed it. Tell them to shut their windows, then.”

Varel sighed. “Pass on word of what you end up choosing, ser. I will be in the keep. _Babysitting_ ,” he added, bitterly.

Nathaniel finally looked over his shoulder, and nodded. “You do a good job, Senescahl. Believe me, if I could spare you, I would have you on the field with the soldiers in an instant.”

“I will see,” Varel said, “if I can’t tie them up with one another for a little while. I would prefer to be involved.”

Nathaniel gave him another curt nod, then turned back to the gate.

He had no idea what to do.

“How do we go about telling which ones have the taint?” he asked at last. “ _Is_  there a way?”

“I don’t know,” Anders said. “I- suppose just look for glassy eyes, spidering veins. Gnashing teeth coming towards your face.”

“And what would you do, then?” Cauthrien snapped. “Chain them down until you’re certain they’re fine? After risking the lives of everybody in this keep to bring them in?”

“I am uncertain,” Justice said. “I… it is unjust to let innocents die, but it is also unjust to allow suffering.”

“Look,” Anders said. “ _I_  am a rather selfish man, if we want to be a bit cruel. I would very much like to  _live_  through this. But leaving those poor sods out there to die of their wounds or by being ripped apart and eaten when we could  _do_  something-“

“We can do something,” Cauthrien said. “An arrow for each one, through the neck. Done. Or if you’d prefer, mage, you could make them fall asleep first. This is a  _ploy_. This is a cruel tactic, meant to make us open the gates. And what do we get in turn, even if we manage the gates correctly? Thirty-odd dying soldiers, incapable of fighting for us, eating up resources and potentially turning on us. It is a great sadness, but there is only  _one_  option.”

“ _Stop_ ,” Nathaniel growled, shaking his head. “Just- all of you. I am the one making this decision. … And I need some time, and a better view.”

And without a look back, he made for the gate house.

The lack of footsteps behind him on the stone stairway was one of the most beautiful sounds in recent days, and he paused halfway up to rest his brow against the cold stone. He felt as Justice had to - conflicted, not comprehending, not seeing any  _right_ answer. There was no just thing to be done here. There was the compassionate thing - to let them in - but even that was not truly compassionate. If even one of them turned on the keep…

It was times like these that he wished he held more faith. An answer from the Maker would have been much appreciated, even if He still left the world again a moment later. Even an answer suggested by the Chant would have been better than the uncertainty he felt now.

To put those soldiers, men and women he  _knew_  from his few weeks serving Vanadia, out of their misery by martial means, or to try to save them and risk the rest.

What did a good man do? What did a man whose duty it was to  _lead_  do?

He swallowed and clenched his fist, then continued up the staircase. That the two were in conflict left him deeply unsettled, but he supposed he had always known that it. He had sat with Cauthrien and listened to her tell him about the Blight. She had told him what they had  _sought_  to do, and where they had failed. She had told him, too, how his father had tried to hide horrible actions behind the auspices of leading.

But he would not be his father. That much he knew. He would not leave them out there to suffer. They would either come in, or die out there - preferably by his arrows.

By the time he reached the upper level, he had made his decision. He paused only to string his bow and grab up the first arrow from one of the quivers hanging from the wall. The guards looked at him uncertainly.

“Nock arrows,” he said, voice steady and quiet. “One shot, one kill. Give those poor souls down there peace. And Maker preserve.”

 

* * *

 

The attacks began again in earnest, ogres trying to crash through the portcullises or rip them up from where they buried in the ground. Anders was sparking left and right, the stress of the constant stream of injured soldiers from the wall and the constant need for striking at the worst of the horde with magic leaving him two spells from falling apart. Justice seethed at his inability to meet their foes in battle, stalking the yard and the wall endlessly. Nathaniel watched it all and could only feel deeply helpless.

 _Redemption_ , he thought, and tried to stay focused.

But the siege had lasted four days and the blood of innocents and of lost soldiers seemed to cover his hands and trail after him where he walked. They were steadily losing archers from return fire. Several soldiers and one of the nobles had committed suicide, rather than wait for the seeming inevitable bursting of the darkspawn through their defenses. There was nowhere to burn the bodies with the yard on full alert, and so they were tucked into the keep’s basement, near the old Avvar shrine, to at least keep them out of the way.

And there was no sign of Vanadia. After Garavel’s reinforcements, no other signs of the outside came at all. The darkspawn line did not slacken; the attacks grew more and more forceful with every day. He could hear the chittering of the Children when he nodded off at his table in the gate house, though sometimes he didn’t know if it was real or a waking nightmare.

He didn’t step foot in his room, and he stopped looking for Cauthrien when she wasn’t by his side. The thought of her made everything still, and he couldn’t afford that. Everything halted at her name, and a mixture of uncertainty and want and anger filled him.

She hadn’t made him draw his bow, but she had encouraged it. He had made her choice. He wondered still if it had been the right one.

But as the sun set on the fourth day, Nathaniel turned from his maps and his numbers, and he realized that she wasn’t there at all. He hadn’t heard her voice or asked her advice the entire day. He hadn’t broken his fast with her, and he hadn’t seen the flint of her eyes trained on anything, let alone on him.

Frowning, he looked to the guards in the room with him. “Have any of you seen Ser Cauthrien?”

“No, ser,” came the reply, and he looked to the door.

There was no need to find her; they had talked strategy as much as he was able the day before, and now there was only waiting and watching to be done. He didn’t need to see her. And yet he  rose and descended the stone stairway, listening for her voice. He expected to find her speaking with Justice.

He found only his guard. He saw only Justice prowling. He scanned the yard and heard only the rhythm of the siege.

Maverlies was crossing the yard towards him at a clip, and he swallowed and focused on her. “What is it, Sergeant?”

“Ser,” she said with a quick salute. “Word has come that the east wall is beginning to fall. Voldrik says it should stand another week at least, but…”

“So much for dwarven construction,” Nathaniel muttered, pushing aside the immediate spike of fear. “A week and a half is all it gives us?”

“He faults the human workers he was forced to use.”

Nathaniel shook his head, jaw clenched to where his teeth throbbed. “… Do you know where Ser Cauthrien is?”

“No, ser.”

“Thank you. Send an extra dozen men to the east wall, try to slow them wearing it down.”

“Yes, ser.” Maverlies saluted again, then was off at a jog, calling for one of the archer team leaders.

Nathaniel watched her go, gaze unfocused and mind spinning.

He didn’t want to go to Cauthrien for aid. He didn’t want to kneel down before her and beg her to tell him how to save the keep. It hadn’t been his idea to ask for her help in the first place, but he had come to depend on her, even when her words made his blood freeze. He didn’t want to find her only to say,  _the east wall is failing, help me_.

He wanted to find her and say,  _I am not sure I can do this_ , and to hear in return,  _I have faith_.

But she wasn’t that sort of woman, that sort of person. She was the sort who when he asked about his father, told him not the worst details but the ones that made him understand, even if it hurt her. She was the sort who when asked about her past would bow her head but wouldn’t hide.

She was the sort to tell him to kill Garavel’s force, when taking them in would have likely ended them all. She was the sort to take the blame when she could, and move forward, so that another could continue leading.

His throat grew dry, and his eyes strayed to the prison door. Eight months sitting in a cell, and she hadn’t protested. She had taken it, because a leader with more to lose than she did had placed her there.

He was walking, then running, before he even knew it.

 

* * *

 

She was there, sitting between their cells with her back against the bars of hers. She had a cup - he didn’t know if it was the one that he had thought of as  _hers_  - in her fingers, and she rolled it back and forth, looking at it. There was a small downturn to her lips, a slight wrinkle to her brow, and only the slightest tightening of the muscles around her eyes to let him know she had heard him enter.

No torch burned.

He shut the door behind him.

The darkness settled around them both, thick and heavy, and he was careful in his approach. One hand trailed on the wall, fingers marking the gaps between stones to ground him. He moved slowly.

“How long have you been down here?” he asked, voice soft so as not to break the silence so much as nudge it.

He heard her shift where she sat, boot heels sliding against stone. “… A while,” she said.

“It’s nearly night.”

“A long while, then.”

He found the crate that was pushed up into the corner, against what had been his old cell and, hand on it, he stepped around it. He was met next by bars. He followed them, hand over hand. 

“… The east wall is starting to fail,” he said when he could think of nothing else besides  _What’s wrong_?

“Oh,” she said, and she sounded as if she were just across from him, so he stopped and turned, lowering himself down to the floor.

He waited for something else, some apology or some offer of help. He even half-expected to be pushed away. But she said nothing and the only sound was her breathing and then, quiet, the tap of the cup against the floor.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispered.

Words failed. His breath shuddered out of him and he dropped his head, brows knitting together and hands helpless in his lap.

“I…” he tried, then shook his head. “Of course you can,” he said, but it sounded weak and thin and wrong, even to him.

“No,” she said, and her boots scraped against the floor again. He imagined her curled up, knees to her chest. “I spent eight months locked away. I can’t just- going straight into a siege, I  _can’t_ \- if we lose, if it’s another Ostagar, another civil war, I-“

Her voice swung up and then fell apart. Nathaniel closed his eyes against the pain there. Outside the door, the siege hadn’t stopped, and wouldn’t stop. Outside the door, they likely needed him. He had dragged her outside of that door, and for just a moment, he wished that he had left her in her cell, and allowed her to ignore it all.

But then she would have heard as they had fallen without her aid, and she would have been trapped even more than they all were now when the darkspawn finally came.

Nathaniel pushed himself forward onto his knees. There was only a few feet of space between the cells, and the sound of her shaking breath, the echo of her words, drew him across it. His hand brushed her foot, her knee. It touched her chin and he leaned forward to cup her cheek.

He wondered if she was staring at him, wide-eyed in the dark, or if her eyes were shut.

“I have faith in you,” he whispered.

“I went to the chapel, first,” she said, not pulling away. He could feel as well as hear her speak, and it drew him closer still. The warmth of her made his arm tremble. He refused to let go. “I didn’t think it would help, but I tried. It didn’t help. I tried to ask for some kind of guidance, or strength, but all I could think about were those people. I killed them. I killed them for the  _greater good_ , because it was the right tactical choice, but I- what sort of power do I have, to make that choice?”

“You didn’t kill them,” Nathaniel said, thumb stroking over her cheek and fingers tangling lightly in her hair. “ _I_  did.”

“Because I told you to.”

“Because it needed to be done.”

She fell silent, and he shifted until he was sitting beside her with his arm across them both. His other hand found her arm, walked down along it until he found her hand and could cover her fingers with his.

“It needed to be done,” he repeated, “but nobody else could bring themselves to say it. We all knew it. Everybody knew it. I-“

“Don’t excuse me,” she said, and she tried to turn from him. He didn’t let her.

“I’m not excusing you,” he said. “What I did was horrible, and you pushed me to it. But it was  _necessary_.”

“I’ve spent two years telling myself that Ostagar was necessary,” she said, voice a broken growl. “That if we hadn’t retreated, if we had rushed the lines, all we would have had to show for it was death. That there was no way to save the king. That we did the right, but horrible, thing.”

“And if I say I trust you that it was the only option you had?” he said, leaning in and pulling her close enough to rest his brow against hers, hand sliding to cup the back of her head.

“Nathaniel-“

“You are no monster,” he said. “A criminal, maybe. But you are no monster. A _monster_  is the darkspawn who tortured those people and then threw them on our mercy. A  _monster_  is my father. And you are neither.”

“But I can’t do this,” she whispered, and he shook his head.

“I only want your help,” he said, thumb stroking at her neck. “I don’t want your orders and I don’t want you to control this siege. But I want you near me because otherwise, I can’t do this, either.”

He had never been so close to her before, never felt so much of the heat of her body, never heard so clearly the rise and fall of her hitching breath. He could feel her exhale against his mouth. It made him shiver in turn, fingers winding with hers, and he pulled away only far enough to tilt his head.

Closing his eyes against the darkness, he leaned in and touched his lips to hers.

Cauthrien didn’t move at first, didn’t breathe, and then he felt her hand on his shoulder, her fingers curling around his baldric. She pulled him closer, fitting her mouth against his in a firmer kiss. It was tentative still, fumbling on the edges, and he couldn’t think straight enough to deepen it or to pull away. All he could do was move to take her in his arms, curl against her and breathe her name.

She made a sound like a sob and let her head drop to his shoulders, turning into him and slipping her arms around his waist. He held her close, cheek pressed to her hair. He listened to her breathing.

 _Eight months_ , he thought, lifting a hand to stroke her hair. Eight months without enough contact. And before that, how long had she been alone, with the weight of so much more than armor on her shoulders? And he had been away from home for eight years, working and waiting and pushing people away.

And across so much time, they had found each other sitting in the dark.

He fought back a smile at the thought, but it was a lovely fantasy to fall into. To shut out the darkspawn, the tension, the march of boots through mud. If he just kept his eyes closed-

“Tell me about the east wall,” she whispered, and at that he laughed, unable to keep it in. He wished he could feel her smile at that, but he had to settle for the tensing of her arms around him.

 _Her arms around him_. Maker.

“Voldrik says we have a week or so left,” he said, shaking his head and loosening his grip if she wanted to pull away. She did, and he imagined her, flushed and pushing her hair back from her face. She’d be lovely. His heart tripped a beat and he took a deep breath. “I have more people stationed there now, to try and thin the numbers attacking it. And they’re still trying to get through the gate.”

She hummed thoughtfully, leaning against the bars again. “No sign of Brosca?”

“None,” he said, and the last of his giddy smile fell away. “I- originally I was looking for you to ask what I should do, you know.”

“And then?”

“And then I acted like a child and was determined not to let you tell me what to do.” He shook his head. “… And then I realized I knew exactly where you were, and exactly why you told me to kill those people, and so I came.”

“Do you still want to ask me what you should do?”

Her fingers danced over the back of his hand, then tentatively wove with his again. He looked down, even though he couldn’t see them. Her touch went from light and uncertain to firm and determined.

“I want to work with you,” he said. “And I have no idea where to begin.”

Cauthrien was silent, and he tried to picture her as she was. Strong and strained, older and wiser and more broken on the wheel of life- and holding on to him. Thinking for him. He squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back.

And then he imagined her smiling as she said, “Talk to me about traps.”


	13. Chapter 13

It took them another day to lay the groundwork, working with Dworkin and with every able-bodied man and woman in the keep who was not up on the walls. Even the nobles were drafted to help move earth. Crates and stone had been piled before the gates to block the darkspawn from seeing, and the sounds of battle drowned out most of the sounds of construction.

He hadn’t considered anything like it before, because to open the gates for their enemies seemed the most daft, death-seeking thing imaginable. But with the east wall continuing to fail, faster than they had anticipated as the Children burrowed and loosed acid, and the ogres crashed against the stone and ignored the rain of arrows on them, a last ditch effort was growing more and more reasonable.

While they could still control where the darkspawn entered, they could use it to their advantage. Dworkin diverted his work from drop-bombs to more buried explosives. Barricade systems were built within the walls of the central fort itself. Traps were made, triplines arranged and ready to be pulled tight. Pits were dug and covered and carefully marked.

The keep’s yard was turned into a death trap, and as he stood on the wall overseeing it all, he smiled grimly.

Cauthrien was down on the ground, digging a trench. He watched her move, allowing himself a moment’s weakness. They hadn’t repeated the kiss from the night before, not with the work that laid before them, but when she passed she would sometimes touch his hand, and when they ate his foot would bump hers. He didn’t know exactly what it meant, except that it wasn’t ended.

And he would keep it from ending here, too.

Justice worked beside her, and Anders was nearby, moving great amounts of earth with a lift of his hands. The whole concert of work was entrancing, and he tried to keep himself focused. The plan was to finish the work before dawn, leaving enough time for some sort of rest. And then, come morning, the gates would be opened.

He was nervous they wouldn’t be able to wait that long, though. Voldrik watched the deterioration of the wall, and his reports were worrying. Much further, Nathaniel thought, and the darkspawn wouldn’t care if the front gates opened. He had given the order half an hour ago to finish the current preparations and then wait on his word.

He held his breath and waited.

 

* * *

 

An hour before the sun set, he gave the order to open the gates.

The cranking of the portcullis being drawn up was answered with triumphant howls from outside the walls. The first gate was barely up before the ground began to shake with the pounding of the remaining ogres, fists against the ground. The drums began to beat and Nathaniel tried to feel his own heart in rhythm with them. The buzzing in his brain grew to a fevered pitch, and he could see Anders on his perch opposite Nathaniel’s bow his head and grimace.

The yard itself was all but empty to all appearances, the soldiers hidden and tucked away out of initial blast range. He and Anders were atop one of the walls of the main building with a cadre of archers each to guard them. Cauthrien was safe inside the audience hall; he had seen her hands tremble when she donned her armor, and he had told her to stay back.

He didn’t need her honor getting her killed.

The second gate began to rise. He forced himself to focus. He thumbed the nock of his arrow, but didn’t draw. The first Children slid in beneath the gates, followed by a wave of genlocks, and he held his breath.

They had put the first tripline and the first buried explosives much further in than they had on the approach. The darkspawn spilling in came to a halt, looking around as if confused. Surely they could smell the humans, though, and he knew for a fact that they could feel the buzz of him just as he could of them.

He swallowed thickly. Almost- almost-

The first ogre passed through the gate, striking its chest and roaring, and the darkspawn scattered, going to the doors of all the buildings littering the yard. Some turned for the east wall, through the narrow neck that led to the other section. His breath caught.

The wall shook as the first blasts began and as the ground dropped out beneath the darkspawn across the yard. The pits were filled with sharpened spikes of rubble, tipped with poison, and the howls that rose from them made him twitch and snarl. Chaos erupted, darkspawn retreating and pushing forward both. A genlock managed to wrench open the door to one of the storehouses.

It exploded in a fiery maelstrom, and Dworkin’s shout of triumph as it took out not just the genlock but all the surrounding beasts reached Nathaniel over the din. He grinned, fiercely, as the next explosions went off. The walls would be damaged, the buildings gone, but if they held the fort, and the people who defended it-

It just might work. He drew his bow and fired his first shot, into the arm of a hurlock that tried to charge the fort.

Across from him Anders was on his feet, staff spinning over his head. Nathaniel could catch the barest edges of his incantation, lost in the pounding of blood and the screeching down below, the  _thwap_  of loosed arrows and quivering bowstrings. Below, the scattering horde tripped lines that sent crude spiked walls swinging from where they were tucked between buildings. The numbers thinned, and for one, beautiful moment, he thought that maybe, maybe, they could get through this without losing a single life.

Then a hurlock arrow found the throat of the man just beside him, and Nathaniel ducked low, shouting to Anders to get down. The mage stumbled and fell back, crying out from the arrow lodged in his shoulder. Down in the yard, he heard the shouts and cries that meant the guard had rushed the field. The screaming started. The howling intensified. The careful illusion shattered and it was just another battle, another scraping for his life, and with a growl he got back into position, nocked another arrow, and fired.

He could see Justice in his gleaming armor and his unflagging endurance crashing through the lines, shield and sword flashing before they became slick with foul blood and worse. It was Justice who led the largest push on, who cut down swaths of the enemy. He never slowed, never stumbled. It must have been the Fade in him, met with his determination to fulfill his purpose.

Another arrow struck the wall just before him, and another behind. He stayed crouched, moving along the wall to take another angle. Two ogres still stood, one in armor so great that Nathaniel doubted that anybody but Anders would be able to bring it down. The other was wavering on its feet, though, and Nathaniel trained his shots on it. An arrow or two meant little to a beast that size, but he had tipped his arrows with poisons he’d learned from Antivans. They would prick at its skin, make its muscles scream, and if they didn’t kill it, they would make the killing blow come more easily.

He saw it stagger, and shot again.

Maverlies, assigned to Anders, had one of her feet braced on a crenelation and was firing down nearly perpendicular to the wall. A glance down showed the Children trying to scale it, and Nathaniel swore, changing tack. He ignored the clash of steel on steel and focused only on the chittering, the crying. Another arrow, another-

His quiver was half empty-

And then, from the yard, he heard a too-familiar voice shouting an order, and he faltered, his arrow going wide. He looked up, scanning the field with wild eyes. And then he saw her, in gleaming chain and helm. He wouldn’t have been able to recognize her if he wasn’t so familiar with her, with the set of her shoulders and how she moved. But he knew her in an instant, and his throat went dry.

Cauthrien.

She was surrounded by a team two-deep but darkspawn archers were as good as any humans and there still remained a few emissaries. Her sword was drawn, but he had seen her shake when she tried to wield it.  _Eight months_ , he wanted to scream at her. And then the armored ogre turned towards the woman bellowing orders, the too-tall woman that couldn’t be ignored, and he felt his world drop out from under him.

He nocked an arrow with trembling fingers, drew, and aimed for the few gaps in the beast’s armor. He fired.

The arrow glanced off.

“Anders!” he shouted, but Anders was still trying to wrench the arrow free of his shoulder. He couldn’t move like that, couldn’t gesture, and Nathaniel nocked another arrow. Another shot. He missed by ten feet, at least, and he swore.

“Maverlies!” he shouted. “Get Anders up! Get him  _up_! The ogre-“

“I see it!” She fired another shot down at the Children, then retreated, going to Anders’ side. Nathaniel tore himself away from her and looked back at the field. There was a flash of brilliant metal, and then he made out the plume of Justice’s helm as the spirit put himself between the ogre and Cauthrien.

But it wouldn’t be enough if the ogre charged. It wouldn’t be anywhere near enough. They would all fall like so many twigs in the path of a boar, and Nathaniel shot another arrow, praying.

It found flesh, and the ogre swung its arm as if to fight it.

The few shrieks in the army’s number closed fast on the contingent Cauthrien led, but they were cut down before they came within five yards of her. The unit worked close and fast, Cauthrien’s leadership carrying them forward. Around them lay dead darkspawn, and only a few of the guard.

The ogre roared again, and Nathaniel held his breath.

The ground began to tremble, and Nathaniel grit his teeth, looking up, expecting to see it rushing forward. But instead it was wavering on its feet. And then it fell, just as the air around it burst into flames. It clawed at itself and the metal of its armor as it heated, and Nathaniel saw Justice charge into the fire, uncaring of the pain.

 _Anders_.

The mage was up, barely, hair falling free of its tie and his brow contorted in agony. He was white, deathly white, and his lips moved nearly without sound. But his hands moved.

He would have sagged in relief if the shout of agony from another of the archers beside him didn’t make him whip back to the fight and draw again. The darkspawn were dropping fast. A hurlock dressed in blackened armor and flashes of red cloth shouted orders against Cauthrien’s, and Nathaniel trained his next arrow on it. _Talking darkspawn_ , he thought, and fired.

It struck the creature in the belly, but it didn’t punch deep. The hurlock threw its head back.

Maverlies’ arrow found it next, in the shoulder. Nathaniel called out a command and all the archers with him on the wall shifted their focus, and in another breath, five arrows pierced the leader. It staggered back, and fell.

A whooping cry went up along the wall and down below in the field. The armored ogre lay still on the ground and Justice had moved on to other prey. Bodies littered the field, too many of his, but far more of the darkspawn.

The sun was just short of the horizon, and the sky was brilliant red and gold. The shadows were stark and long, the ground a churning mass of mud and blood. But the battle began to die, and lifting his gaze, he saw beyond the first curtain wall figures on the road, riding fast.

 _Vanadia_.

He grinned, muscles screaming in pain and triumph both as he nocked his remaining arrows. His shots went wide a few times, but the others found their mark. He rose to his full height, uncaring of any remaining risk. They had won.

Maker, they had  _won_ , and he swore that he could hear the horses, swore he could hear the footsteps of Vanadia and Sigrun and Velanna and Oghren as they broke into the yard. He couldn’t see much more than how they charged, how they cut through any darkspawn they met with.

As the last of the darkspawn fell before them or began to run for the open gate, he saw Cauthrien turn and look up to the walls. He couldn’t see her eyes, or her smile, but he grinned back and raised his bow to her.

She returned the gesture.

And then an arrow struck his side and he staggered back, eyes searching but failing to find the darkspawn that had shot him. He frowned, looking down unbelieving at his stomach. “Straight through the armor,” he said, and his voice sounded hazy and distant.

He wavered on his feet, then sunk down against the wall behind him, looking out to the sunset. “We won,” he protested. And then his vision faded.

 

* * *

 

He wasn’t sure where he was. He was only certain of the warmth against his brow, the flash of pale and dark when he could open his heavy eyelids.  _Cauthrien,_  he thought as her hair brushed his cheek. She pulled back and he tried to smile.

But it all hurt. It hurt too much, and his smile faded to a grimace.

She touched his jaw.

He watched her throat work, watched her search for words, but it was hard to cling to consciousness. There was a distance in her gaze that he couldn’t recognize. He made a soft, pained sound.

She bent and kissed his brow again, and then his lips, lightly. “Thank you,” she whispered, and his hand flexed at his side. “For everything. I’ll- I’ll miss you.”

And then she pulled away, and he couldn’t find his voice to ask if that meant he was going to die.

He couldn’t turn his head to see her go.


	14. Chapter 14

He woke again in his room. He was alone and stripped to his smalls, curled beneath heavy blankets. The window was cracked and he grimaced at the stench.  _Funeral pyres_ , he thought as he pushed himself up.

His side protested, and he looked down to see bandages wound around his abdomen. They were clean, with no stain of dried blood, and a searching prod produced only a dull ache. Satisfied, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood.

The motion drew a groan from him, but the pain was bearable, and he stumbled to the wardrobe.

 _I’ll miss you_. The words echoed and he thought of her, on the battlefield. He’d dreamed of her, he was fairly certain. He’d dreamed of her alone, unarmed. He’d dreamed of her dying. But he’d also dreamed of her winning the day, and he had dreamed of being beside her, and he had dreamed-

Had he dreamed  _I’ll miss you_?

Dressed, he tugged his boots on and laced them quickly, then slipped into the hall. He heard talking and he followed it. Vanadia’s door hung open, and Sigrun’s voice drifted out. He hesitated- and then he passed it by.

The yard was still a mess of mud and blood and all the rest, and his boots squelched through it. The pyres burned beyond the inner walls, out in the former darkspawn camp, and the stench of it pervaded everything. He ignored it as best he could, making for the prison door.

“Warden Nathaniel,” Justice called, and Nathaniel ignored that too, wrenching open the door. Vanadia had returned, and she must have met Cauthrien on the field. Cauthrien- back in that cell- the thought made his blood burn. He strode inside-

And was met with only empty cells with open doors.

“Warden Nathaniel,” Justice said again, from the doorway, and Nathaniel turned.

“Where is she?”

“Gone,” Justice said. “She departed the morning after the siege.”

“ _Gone_? Gone  _where_?”

“I do not know. The Commander gave Cauthrien her freedom in return for her aid in the defense of the keep. She then ordered Cauthrien out of her sight. I… attempted to convince her to remain until you had recovered, but both objected to it.”

“How long ago,” Nathaniel said, swallowing, “was the morning after the siege?”

“Two days.”

Two days gone. She was two days gone - how could he find her? He exhaled shakily. _I’ll miss you_ , she had said, and all he had been able to do was mumble nonsense. He hadn’t been able to thank her, or to wish her well, or to beg her to stay.

“I have to find her,” he said, and he shouldered past Justice. “I have to- there’s nowhere for her to  _go_. There are still darkspawn. She can’t defend herself-“

Justice caught his wrist and brought him up short. “She can defend herself,” Justice said. “I have seen it. After you fell, she took down two of the darkspawn, trying to get to your side.”

Nathaniel looked back at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “I-” he managed, and then he shook his head. “I need to find her-“

“What do you intend to do when you find her?”

He tugged at Justice’s grip. “I’ll figure it out when it happens,” he said.

“The Commander told her to leave, and to never let her see her face again. It seems unwise to bring her back here, and if you plan to desert your post, I must object.”

Nathaniel stared. And then he laughed, a surprised, low thing. “Were those her words?”

Justice frowned. “I believe she said, ‘ _You have earned your freedom. And in exchange, I never see your face again._ ’ Why?”

His lips twitched. “I need to find her,” was all he said. His next tug gained him freedom, and he made for the stables, such as they were.

“Nathaniel!” Justice called.

He waved him off. “Tell the Commander I’ll be back within a fortnight.”

 

* * *

 

He found her the next night. He had begun to regret leaving with no preparation - no food, no weapon beyond his knife, and no changes of clothing. But when he entered the small inn he had spent his first night after his release at and saw her sitting at the same table where he had sat, he forget all of it. He felt instead like a schoolboy again, giddy and trembling and disbelieving.

There was a fresh cut down her cheek, but she was alive. She was whole. And she was there before him, oblivious and sitting by the fire, filling her belly.

He would have given anything to have been able to bring her that food, but he satisfied himself by instead coming to sit across from her.

She stopped with a piece of bread halfway to her mouth, and slowly lowered it again. “… Nathaniel?”

“Hello,” he said, and he could feel himself grinning. “You can be a difficult woman to find when you’re not confined to a cell.”

It drew a smile and a soft, uneven laugh from her. She shook her head and passed a hand through her hair. “I didn’t- I didn’t think I’d see you again,” she said.

“I wish you had waited before running.”

“Vanadia Brosca is a rather intimidating woman,” Cauthrien said, with a glance back at the innkeeper. “I would have, if I felt able to. You’re well, then? Healed?”

“The ride wasn’t easy on it,” he said with a shrug. “I find that the ache is worth it, though. Where are you headed?”

“South. Towards my father’s farm,” she said. “It might be gone, but it’s a decent place to start.”

“Is that what you want? To become a farmer?”

Cauthrien sat back, hand settling on the body of her mug. He glanced down to her fingers, moving the same way they had on her smaller wooden cup. “It seems the best option. Nobody is going to take me as a knight, or even a guard, unless I leave Ferelden. And I’d rather not do that.”

“Nobody?” He quirked a brow.

“The Crown certainly won’t, and neither will the Bannorn. I’d rather not throw my lot in with mercenaries.”

Nathaniel took a deep breath, then leaned in. “And the Grey Wardens?” Her gaze rose to his, stunned, and he smiled. “I have a feeling,” he said, “that if you were to come back, and if you were to ask, Vanadia would not turn you away.”

“She told me-” Cauthrien shook her head. “No. She would turn me away if she didn’t run me through, first.”

“Justice told me she said she would benefit by never seeing your face again.”

“Exactly,” Cauthrien said.

“She said those exact words to me,” he said, and watched as her brow furrowed, then eased in realization.

“Oh.”

He nodded. “Exactly.”

She looked back down at her hands, at her mug, and then she pushed back from the table and stood. He stood as well. She pulled a few coppers from her pocket and left them on the table, then lifted her gaze back to him. “… Do you have a place to stay?” she asked.

He felt himself flush, and gave into it, along with a small smile. “No,” he said. “Not yet. And as I recall, this inn has two rooms-“

“One of which is occupied by an elderly gentleman,” Cauthrien said. “But- the bed is large enough for two, at least.”

“I remember,” he said, heart jumping and hammering. He hadn’t gone after her for this, but the thought of it made him want to catch her where she was, draw her close and kiss her again. He made himself reply with some semblance of calm, however. “I would be honored.”

“Honored,” she said, and chuckled. “Not the word I had expected.” With an incline of her head toward the stairs, she led the way, and he followed at a respectful distance.

“I have others,” he murmured when they were halfway up. “But most would sound incoherent, I fear.”

She laughed again, fishing the key from her belt as she reached the door.  _His_  door, from that first night. He closed the distance between them as the latch clicked, and she turned to meet his kiss as the door opened. She guided him back in as he caught an arm around her waist and tangled a hand in her hair. She barely managed to close the door behind them, leaving them in darkness but for the light of the moon through the window, before she groaned softly and parted her lips to him.

He tried to remember where the bed was, and between the two of them they found it. Her hands on him were harsh, grabbing and pulling him against her. He caught her lower lip between his and suckled, just enough to make her gasp and arch against him. Nathaniel broke away only to kiss at her throat instead and press her down towards the mattress. She pushed back a moment, pulling away.

“Do you want me to light a candle?” she asked, breathless, and he shook his head.

“No.” He breathed it against her skin, then nipped at her pulse. She answered him with a strangled hiss, settling back and drawing him with her. They had met in the dark, and they had come together that first time in the dark. It seemed only fitting - and seeing her would have broken him, he was sure. The way she sounded, the way her breath hitched, the way her hands reached between them to tug at his clothing-

He grabbed her wrists, intending to pin them to the bed so that he could map her with his lips, so that he could prolong the moment, but she hooked a leg around his hips and pushed back, rolling him to the side and nearly under her. He fumbled trying to toe off his boots and draw up further onto the bed with her, lips leaving her skin. Hers dragged along his jaw, then found his earlobe, and he bit back a groan.

Somehow he managed to push his boots off, and he heard the answering thud of hers. He let go of her wrists, turning his head to kiss her. She laughed against his lips, and he mumbled her name.

To imagine her here, like this, on top of him and pulling his shirt free, eager and relieved and real beneath his hands, left his head spinning. The air of the room was cool on his chest. Her lips were warm and as her tongue brushed his, he gripped her hips and rocked up against her. He wanted to feel all of her, learn every inch of her.

She sat up to pull her own shirt off. His hands found her waist, sliding up it until he reached the tight band covering her breasts. He realized with a throb of want that down in the prison, she hadn’t worn one at all; he could recall now, if he tried, the shadows of how her tunic had fallen. He tugged at the laces binding it and was met by her hands batting his away.

He let her, then went to work on the laces of her trousers instead.

When he heard the slither of fabric as it dropped, and her hands nudging his aside again, he reached up not to feel her breasts but to cup her face and draw her down for another kiss. She smiled against him and dropped her hands to his chest, and rolled her hips down against him. He groaned and she nipped at his lower lip again, an eager and forceful little bite. He slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of her trousers, then back up along her spine, searching and remembering and learning.

He had learned her first by voice, and then by sight. Touch came next. Her words had taught him about how she built herself up, so that when he saw her he had understood. The feel of her would teach him the way she moved and the way she breathed. Another day would bring learning how she looked.

“Nathaniel,” she murmured, low and throaty, as his palms ghosted over the swell of her breasts, larger and fuller than he would have expected on a woman so strong and almost masculine in how she carried herself. She gasped and arched as he brushed her nipples, and her hips twitched again. Leaning up, he caught her around the waist and dropped his head to her breast, taking one nipple in his mouth and suckling, lightly at first and then roughly enough that her fingers dug hard into his shoulder.

He dragged his teeth over the tightening bud, and she groaned and squirmed until she could reach between them and grasp him through his breeches. He was hard already, more than hard, and he moaned against her skin. To break away from her enough to lose the last of his clothing seemed unthinkable, but to stay trapped was even worse. He was freed from the decision when she rose off of him.

The loss of her heat made his hands tremble and fumble still more than the want of her. He shoved down his breeches and kicked them aside, reaching for her again the moment his hands were free. He was met with her touch, guiding him until he felt her hips, bare and warm and firm. He pulled her to him and met her with a searching kiss. She drew down with him to the mattress, legs tangling with his, hands following the same paths his had lain out on her skin. Her fingertips brushed where the arrow had struck him, now just a pink puckered spot that might not even scar. He had tossed aside the bandages the day before, and now her touch on the sensitive skin made him groan her name.

He dropped kisses along her throat again, tasting the salt sweat beginning to dot her skin, following the line of muscle down to her collarbone. He laved it with his tongue, finding the hollow between them. She arched and he kissed still lower at the proffering of her chest, laying blessings over the nipple he hadn’t tasted yet. Her fingers tangled in his hair and pulled him close, and he curled around her, hands on her hips pulling her against him.

He hadn’t been with another person in a year, maybe two, and the brush of his length against her thigh and up, against her burning center, left him gasping. His fingers dug deeper and he suckled harder, and she responded with his name and a plea, a rocking of her hips in invitation. He slipped a hand beneath her thigh and lifted it, positioning himself with a rush of overwhelming  _need_. He needed to be inside of her. He needed to make her cry out with pleasure. He needed to feel her wrapped around every inch of him. He needed- he needed-

 _Her_.

He rocked his hips forward, burying himself a few inches inside of her. The angle wasn’t right, not quite, but he couldn’t think for the heat of her. He trembled and pressed his lips to her shoulder, shuddering and trying to think, trying to focus.

Her gasp of, “Nathaniel- Nathaniel  _please_ \- just-” was what made him move again, rolling his hips again and this time finding the angle he needed, sliding deep to the hilt inside of her. He moaned, shifting against her and bearing her down against the mattress, pulling her leg up higher as he thrust a third time. He pressed his face to her neck, trying to breathe. Her arms encircled him and her fingers dug into his back, his lower back, pushing him on. Her free leg hooked around his.

He raised his head and found her lips by feel alone, and began to move in earnest.

She moaned his name and he drank it in. The litany of sounds falling from her lips only made him move faster, deeper, searching desperately for just the right spot, just the right rhythm. He could feel his pulse in every inch of him and could hear hers thundering against his chest. He pressed as close to her as he could, bodies flush, even when it made his thrusts shallower. He breathed her name and bit her lip and tried to prove with every kiss how much he wanted this, how much he  _needed_  this.

They had come through three nights in the dark together, and a month and more of pain and awkwardness and danger to be in that room, tangled together, and he wanted her to remember all of it. He wanted her to remember that they had  _won_. That the sky had been red as blood as the sun had set, and the keep had been half-destroyed, but that they had won the day.

With a growl that echoed the one building silent in him, Cauthrien pushed against him, rolled him beneath her once more. He lost his hold on her leg and she rose up, knees digging into the mattress on either side of his hips. His hands found her waist, and he splayed his fingers to drink in the warmth he had lost, focusing instead on the heat of where they joined. She took him hard, harder than he had her, a  _taking_ that he couldn’t and didn’t want to deny.  _This_  was the woman on the battlefield, who had won the day for him. She was harsh and demanding and so utterly  _right_ , moving in just the right way, and he cried out her name, a broken half-sob, as he felt the coiling, burning pressure in his belly give way, his hands tightening and pulled her down flush to him.

She dropped forward, gasping and grinding against him as he spasmed, dropping her face to his throat and pressing adoring kisses there as she worked herself. She bucked and he held her close, another groan ripping from his throat at how she tightened around him. He rocked his hips as best he could, another shallow thrust, and then she moaned loud against his shoulder, body tensing, trembling, and pressing hard to his.

His breathing sounded too loud, his pulse felt too strong, but he ignored it all in favor of curling his arms around her and rolling them both to their sides, kissing at the crown of her head.

After so long being separated by bars between them, to have her wound so tightly around him, to be so undeniably against and  _inside_  of her left him breathless, even after his skin began to cool. When she lifted her head he nuzzled at her cheek, then kissed her lips. She laughed, a soft, true sound that wasn’t masking pain or disdain. He smiled.

“Were those,” she murmured, “your incoherent words?”

“Something like that,” he said, throat thick and words sluggish. “… Cauthrien?”

“Mm?” she mumbled, pulling a hand away from him and tugging at the blankets they were on top of.

“Don’t go,” he said.

“I won’t,” she said, pulling back to look at him. There was enough thin moonlight in the room to see the silhouette of her, and he wondered if she was smiling.

He moved, slipping out of her and losing that heat, and let her pull the blankets up over them.


	15. Chapter 15

She was still there when the sun rose.

He had woken twice in the night, fearing she might disappear, but each time when he reached out he could find her. The first time she was still tucked warm against his side. The second, she had moved away slightly, but he couldn’t find it in himself to blame her. He hadn’t shared a bed in some time, and his arm had fallen asleep from being trapped beneath her earlier.

At dawn, though, she had returned to his side, lying beside him with an arm draped over him. He wondered if she had woken and moved, or if it was something done in sleep. He watched her as the sunlight began to filter in through the window, catching on her hair - not black, it turned out, but a very deep brown. She had a surprisingly delicate jaw, and the slight lower curve of her nose kept his interest for longer than it likely should have. Her shoulders were broad and he could make out the lines of muscle there, even faded as there were.

He counted scars while he waited for her to stir. The bedding had fallen down to their waists while they slept, tangling around their legs, but his eyes didn’t linger on her (full, lovely) breasts; they went to the little raised lines and puckers of a life spent fighting. Her skin was surprisingly smooth for it all, though it showed her age. Armor, he supposed as he traced the path between her ribs down to her navel.

She started at the touch and he pulled away, flushing.

“Just me,” he murmured.

She opened her eyes, blinking blearily and stretching against him. Her toes brushed his shins and he felt it like a jolt through him. “Good morning,” she said, and then she pushed against the mattress, sitting up and rolling her shoulders.

“Going somewhere?” he asked, and she paused, then shook her head.

“Habit,” she said, lowering herself back down.

He couldn’t help his grin as she tucked herself against him. It seemed- monumental, from a woman like her. He couldn’t imagine her tucked against many others, and he remembered what she had told Justice - that she had never had the opportunity.

_For love_ , he reminded himself. That didn’t mean this. That didn’t mean…

He pushed aside the thought.

“How did you sleep?” he asked instead.

“The bed was too soft,” she said with a snort. “… But I didn’t think you would like it if you woke up to me on the floor.”

“No,” he said. “Not particularly. I would have tried to put you back in bed, and I have a feeling I might have ended the night with a black eye.”

“Possible,” she said, and he chuckled. “… But I’ll admit, waking up not alone- it’s… nice. If a little odd.”

“Good,” he said, pushing himself on one elbow to look down at her. “I’d like to do it again.” She quirked a brow and he blushed. “I- that is, the waking up in the same bed part. And the rest. But I- having you here. It’s…”

“Nice,” she finished, and he nodded, groaning and falling back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

“I’m making a fool of myself,” he muttered.

“At least you aren’t throwing your boots at the wall like a petulant child,” she pointed out, and he nearly protested before thinking  _that was how we met_.

He smiled instead.

“At least.”

She began tracing patterns on his chest, and he looked to her curiously. “You didn’t do that before,” he said. “Idle movements. Like with you cup last night. They’re new.”

“They’re not,” she said. “They’re… I control them when I’m with somebody I’m not comfortable around. Or when I’m on duty.”

He couldn’t help his smile. “You trust me,” he said.

“… Yes. Something like that.” She said it lightly, but she was smiling in turn.

He leaned close enough to kiss her brow. “Does this mean that you’ll return with me?” he asked, trying not to hold his breath or doubt.

“I want to,” she said.

“But?”

“Joining the Grey Wardens…”

“Can give you a purpose,” he said, “if you want one. And it can let you chase redemption. But I already think you’ve found yours.” He pushed himself up once more so that he could meet her gaze fully. “It’s nasty, brutal work, but there’s something very liberating in it, too. Killing darkspawn instead of people…”

She huffed. “I can see the appeal,” she admitted.

His thoughts went to that first fight down beneath the keep, and to Kal’Hirol. And then it drifted back still further to his own Joining.

 _Should you perish_  crossed his mind, and his heart fell.

But he had survived, and Sigrun had survived. Even Anders had survived it. If they had all pushed through, he had trouble believing that Cauth wouldn’t.

And yet…

“I want this to be your own decision,” he said, forcefully. “If you don’t want to, we can try to get Vana to let you serve at the keep in some other capacity. I-“

She put two fingers to his lips and he stilled.

“No,” she said. “I want this.”

 

* * *

 

Vana met them at the gate, standing amidst the rubble and the broken metal, arms crossed over her chest and expression flat. Nathaniel pulled his horse up short. It whickered and danced back from the destruction, then stilled, and he glanced back to Cauthrien.

“Ready?” he asked.

She nodded and tightened her arms around him one last time before she slid from the saddle. He stayed mounted as he watched her cross the torn up earth, coming to stand several yards from Vana and saluting.

“I thought,” Vana said, “that I said I never wanted to see your face again.”

He looked for her spine straightening, her shoulders squaring. He saw none. She was steady and calm, calmer than he had been. His mind flew back to meeting Vana and the others on the road, bedraggled and determined and frightened.

“I know,” Cauthrien said, voice muffled by her back being to him. “But I’ve come back to offer my services, if you’ll have them.”

Vana looked her over, then canted her head. “I held you in chains for eight months, and you come back to me? I gave you freedom, Cauthrien. What else do you want of me?”

“Make me a Grey Warden,” she said, and it carried clear enough that Nathaniel felt shivers dance along his spine. He remembered saying those words, with the same inflection, the same  _need_  tempered by the faintest hint of quashed uncertainty.

Vana lips curled into a smirk. “You? Are you joking?”

It was the same pattern. Cauthrien was less angry, less indignant, but he could hear the echoes, see it in Vana’s face. She’d say yes. He knew she would say yes.

All Cauthrien had to do was push.

“No,” Cauthrien said. “The Wardens take all comers. I would put myself before your mercy, instead of simply surrendering to it.”

Vanadia didn’t respond at first. Her gaze didn’t waver and her smirk fell to blankness. And then she took a step forward. “… Do you think this will redeem your name?” she asked.

Nathaniel bit back a grin.

Cauthrien regarded her for a moment, then said, “I don’t care much for my name. It holds little of who I am these days. But it will let me redeem  _myself_.”

Vana nodded, and stepped aside.

“Then welcome back to Vigil’s Keep. I’ll have Varel prepare the Joining, and we’ll see how you fare. Ancestors watch over you and Stone catch you if you fall.”

Cauthrien’s shoulders at last bowed in relief, and Nathaniel nudged his horse forward, smiling. It was a better welcome than he had earned, certainly, and as Cauthrien reached up a hand and caught the bridle of his horse and he slipped down beside her, he felt more confident than he had all day.

She would survive it.

She had to.

 

* * *

 

But when the moment came and she tilted the cup to her lips, when he watched for the first time somebody sway and stagger and then fall back, when he ran forward to catch her in his arms so that her skull wouldn’t crack open on the ground, he didn’t feel so certain. He could feel her breathing, fast and shallow and uneven, and he looked up to Varel and to Vanadia.

“She will live,” Varel said. “If she breathes yet, she will live.”

“See?” Vana said. “Not so bad.”

Nathaniel swallowed and wondered how Vana had given the chalice to Sigrun. But when Cauthrien twitched, jerked almost out of his grip, the thought vanished and he focused only on her. She was pale, and drawn, and her brow was furrowed deep-

He remembered his own nightmares, the sickness, the coming to on the floor of the audience hall. And nodding to himself, he gathered her up in his arms. She was too tall and too  _light_  for it all. He stood awkwardly, shifting her so that her head fell against his shoulder.

“The room,” he said, “that we gave her during the siege-“

“Is untouched,” Vanadia said. “We expected her back, after all.”

“I will assist,” Justice said from where he had been watching from the sidelines. He came closer to Nathaniel, and Nathaniel shook his head.

“Just- open the doors. I have her.”

He was winded by the time he settled her onto her bed and drew the blankets over her. His arms and back ached. But her breathing had steadied as he carried her, and he could see her eyes move beneath the lids. She shifted.

She was alive.

“It is good that you allowed her to take the Joining,” Justice said. “She will be a strong ally.”

Nathaniel laughed thinly as he dragged a hand through his hair, fingers catching on his braids. “Ally,” he said.  _That’s mostly correct_ , he thought, and settled down by the side of her bed to wait.

“She does not need supervision,” Justice said, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“No,” he said. “But she likes the company.”

Justice watched a moment longer, then left the room, closing the door behind him. The click of the latch made something in him unwind, and he reached out to take Cauthrien’s hand.

“An ally,” he murmured, “or something like it.”

 

* * *

 

Shouts rang out in the yard down below, shouts followed by the crash of practice weapons and of fists and elbows on armor. It was a far better sound than that of true battle, and Nathaniel found himself watching from the wall where he had mounted his last defense. Not a few feet away was where he had been struck by that final arrow. And down where he had watched Cauthrien surrounded by the guard-

Well, he watched Cauthrien surrounded by the guard.

Her hair was pulled back as best as it could be and she was dressed in padded arming clothes. She was all fluid grace as she deflected a blow meant for her shoulder, guiding the dull blade aside and stepping in to bring her elbow hard against the man’s chest. He stumbled back and she disengaged, wiping a hand over her brow.

It continued through the afternoon. A month of practice had her almost back to form, though she denied it. He could feel it in how her muscles laid beneath her skin, how she held him in the night, how she carried herself during the day. She was the woman his stories had told him of, and more.

Down below, Justice stepped forward to challenge her, and he wondered if she grinned. He could imagine it, fierce and determined, as she ducked low beneath his first strike, as she caught his knees. He didn’t falter and moved with her, bearing her to the ground, but she rolled from him. Mud streaked her cheek and leggings, churned by feet and the recent rains.

It was like watching a dance, he mused, and from there his mind went to if she knew how to dance, and if the spring festivals would draw out another thread of her, another piece for him to learn. He wondered if they could dance in the dark, or if that would just end in bruised shins and stubbed toes. He wondered what she would look like, in his arms, flush from dance and music and maybe wine.

His feet took him down to the yard.

He hadn’t really expected the keep to ever feel like home, or to ever forget how his ankles had throbbed, how his body had ached, how he had been told to  _keep walking_. And he hadn’t quite forgotten it all, but it had been put aside in favor of something new.

 _In peace, vigilance_. The darkspawn had broken. The Mother and the Architect lay dead somewhere by Vanadia’s hand. Oghren had been reunited with his child, and Anders miraculously had not disappeared into the night. Velanna kept on, surly in the corner with her journal, and Sigrun filched it for her own reading in the evenings. They had all made it out the other side, in some way or another.

It was difficult to remember how hopeless it had all seemed with the darkspawn breaking down the walls. The east wall had been repaired in full, and the wreckage had been cleared. New buildings had begun. Delilah had returned from Denerim, and was within a month of birthing his nephew. And Cauthrien…

Cauthrien crossed to him when he entered the yard, putting aside her practice sword and approaching with the smile he had imagined.

“Playing the sneak?” she asked, and he chuckled.

“Not successfully, it appears. Can I talk to you?”

She glanced back at the sparring ring, then nodded. “Of course.”

He smiled. “Shall we go to the prison?”

“Oh.” Her laugh still made him giddy. It felt monumental every time such a scarred woman laughed, even if came more and more often these days. “Is it that serious, then?”

“I have something I want to give you. I could keep the torch unlit, too, if you like.”

She shook her head and led him instead to a bench set up along one of the walls. “Out here is fine,” she said. “I find I don’t like giving up my outdoor time these days.”

“Understandable.” Nathaniel touched her hand lightly, then reached for his pocket. “If… I gave you a gift, what do you think the odds are that you would like it, as opposed to ordering me to go?”

The look she returned to him was questioning and amused, brows drawn up and lips twitching as she fought a smile. “I thought I told you,” she said. “I don’t wager with thieves.”

“Is this where I make some quip about stealing your affections?” he mused. His fingers closed around the chain and he drew it out, offering it to her.

His mother’s necklace glinted up at them both, and he tried to remember to breathe.

“This…” she said, slowly, fingers dancing just above it without quite the boldness to touch.

“Is what got me caught in the first place. I nearly sold it or threw it away. I  _hated_  my mother. And yet…” He shrugged and offered her a nervous smile. “I kept it.”

“It’s not- something I would ever wear,” she said.

“That’s fine.” He caught one of her hands and pressed the necklace into it. “I just want to have given it to you. After all, if I hadn’t been stupid enough to try and take it, I never would have thrown my boots and woken you up.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” she said, and he laughed. “But I- think I understand,” she said, and curled her fingers around the trinket. “And you’re sure this isn’t some sneaky way to tell me I remind you of your mother?”

“ _Never_ ,” he said. “And not my father either. Nothing in my past.”

He folded his hands around hers.

“Stay with me?” he asked, and his voice dropped. “For as long as it’s allowed to us?”

Cauthrien searched his face and then she nodded. She leaned in and brushed her lips over his. “I would have it no other way.”


End file.
